Whither My Heart?
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: When Leslie falls in love again, she faces some hard decisions. But will the gamble pay off? Follows 'Stormchasers'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _I had a great time writing this, especially since I got to scatter some hints for future stories. Because of the way I've set up my timeline for these stories, they are several months in the future at least, but they are definitely in the wings. Thanks again to my reviewers…you guys are good for this fragile ego. (grin) P.S. to Harry2: "welcome to Fantasy Island!"

* * *

_§ § § -- July 4, 1996

"Well," said Roarke, surveying the computer, "I think it's time we brought ourselves up to date with the times."

Fireworks, being set off for vacationing Americans at the plane dock, popped in the distance and burst in brilliant colors outside the windows. "How so?" Leslie asked without taking her eyes from the spectacle.

"I believe we need a website," said Roarke thoughtfully. "As it happens, there are not many people equipped to construct a good one; and it _should_ be a good one, to uphold the image we have." He cast a vaguely interested glance at the next cascade of colorful sparks through the window. "Unfortunately, I am not certain who might be qualified."

"A website?" Leslie asked, still watching the fireworks. "You know, it's funny, but I was talking with Lauren and Brian the other day and they said they had to go practically around the world to find a really good site designer. But when they did, they hired him then and there, and it's my understanding he's at work on their site right now. Do you want me to get his name for you?"

Roarke nodded. "I'd appreciate that," he said. "Tomorrow is soon enough, though. The fireworks are quite spectacular this year, are they not?"

"They always are," said Leslie, giving him a quick grin. "After all, as you said, we have an image to uphold." Roarke chuckled and joined her at the window.

The following morning was a Thursday and thus filled with the usual preliminary preparations for the approaching weekend. On her rounds to arrange for flowers, refreshments and other things for the bungalows, Leslie stopped at the marina and found the six-by-six-foot shack that Brian and Lauren used as the main office for their hydrofoil business. She tapped on the open door and stuck her head inside. "Anyone home?"

"Hi, Leslie," said Lauren, looking up from behind a counter that nearly bisected the little room. "What's up?"

"I've got a question for you," said Leslie. "Father was kind of thinking aloud last evening and mentioned that he thinks it's time Fantasy Island had a website. I remembered you and Brian had hired somebody to do yours, and thought I'd ask for his name."

Lauren's eyebrows shot up and she nodded. "That'll be a challenge, but I think he'll enjoy it. His name's Christian Enstad, and he's really good, Leslie. He comes from that little island where Frida was born."

"Does he really!" Leslie exclaimed in surprise. "You and Brian had to go that far afield to get a good website designer?"

" 'Fraid so," Lauren said cheerfully. "He doesn't come cheap either, I might as well warn you now, but he's worth it. He had to go back home for a week or so to take care of some personal stuff, I think, but he left us his business card. Let me call Brian and pass the word along." She grabbed the phone and punched out her home number while Leslie waited, leaning casually over the counter. "Hi, honey, it's me. Listen…Leslie's here, and she says Mr. Roarke's decided Fantasy Island should have a website. Do you think Mr. Enstad would be willing to take on the job?" She listened for a moment. "Sure, no problem. Hold on a sec." She covered the mouthpiece and focused on Leslie. "How do you want to proceed here? Should we just have him call the main house, or what?"

"That's probably best," Leslie said. "You know the number. Father'll be out till about two this afternoon, then he'll be there for a couple hours or so. Have him call between two and four, and they can set up the arrangements then."

"Gotcha," said Lauren and relayed this information to Brian. A minute or so later she hung up. "All set. If you get a chance, tell Mr. Roarke he'll be getting a call."

"Will do. Thanks, Lauren, we appreciate it." Leslie returned her friend's wave and departed the shack.

On Saturday afternoon Roarke and Leslie met the plane that bore their new website designer. They shook hands and greeted one another; Christian Enstad was a surprisingly tall man, about six feet three inches, with well-groomed chestnut-colored hair, sharp, intelligent hazel eyes, and an infectious grin. He was dressed casually but expensively, and it was clear to both Roarke and Leslie that his hands were carefully manicured, as if perhaps he were a very visible actor or a hand model. Neither commented, however; there was likely to be more than enough time to get acquainted, at least on a superficial level. Roarke raised an eyebrow when Christian lifted Leslie's hand and half bowed over it, though he didn't actually kiss it. The motion rang several bells in his mind and he tucked his observations away for later. For the moment, he wanted to concentrate on the business at hand.

"So," said Christian to Roarke as they strolled toward a waiting rover, "you are looking to provide Fantasy Island with a website, Mr. Roarke?"

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Enstad," Roarke began.

"Please call me Christian," the man broke in, flashing that engaging grin. "We will probably be working together for some time to come, and I hate such formality."

Roarke chuckled. "Very well, Christian…and I am sure my daughter will suggest that you call her Leslie." He fielded Leslie's dirty look and winked playfully at her, out of Christian's view. "Yes, I have noticed that the Internet has come into great prominence in the last year or two, and I believe that Fantasy Island should move in step with the times. One of Leslie's friends gave us your name, and it's my understanding you are from Lilla Jordsö."

Christian nodded. "Yes, I am. There's been a real explosion in the number of computer specialists and website designers nowadays, but I am still the only one on Lilla Jordsö, which places me in fairly high demand." He chuckled self-deprecatingly. "Of course, how could it do otherwise? Anyhow…I very much appreciate your following the recommendation you received. We can begin now if you have the time."

"Yes, we have enough free time at the moment that we can make out a rough sketch of my thoughts for the website's look," Roarke agreed. "Leslie is to have equal input, so we will all be contributing ideas and suggestions."

Christian glanced at Leslie, and that grin bloomed again, provoking a like response from her. "Excellent! I try to follow my clients' wishes as closely as possible. First of all, I need to take a look at your computer and find out what the system is capable of."

"We just bought the latest model," Leslie spoke up. "It's actually our third one, but the first two still work, so Father and I each have a personal computer now. I have to admit that mostly I just play games on mine, in my spare time." They all laughed.

"We should be able to network them and set things up so that you can each receive e-mail messages on your own computers, as well as accessing your accounts from the one you will be using for the business." At this point the rover rounded the bend in the Main House Lane and he took in the scene with wonder. "So this is the main house, then! It's stunning, Mr. Roarke. How you can concentrate on your work in a setting like this, I'll never know."

"It's not easy," Leslie kidded and they laughed again. "We've set aside a bungalow for you, since this is what passes for our slow season and they're not all full. Maybe you'd rather go there first and get a little rest before you start working."

Christian said, "As a matter of fact, since we are already putting forth some ideas, I think it better to continue now while our brains are focused on the subject, and I can relax later. But thank you for your consideration, Leslie." They smiled at each other. The rover came to a halt and everyone got out, crossing the lane to the porch.

Christian examined their business computer and grinned with anticipation. "This is wonderful. You're better equipped than almost any other client I've ever had, so this will be a truly enjoyable project. Why don't we start out by assessing what your needs are, and we'll work from there."

"Electronic mail accounts, as you mentioned, for both of us," Roarke mused, settling behind the desk while Christian and Leslie each took one of the chairs. "Although, to be perfectly honest, I have been debating whether these accounts should be strictly personal or used for business purposes. You see, we receive a very large volume of mail, most of which consists of fantasy-fulfillment requests; and ever since I began operations here, it has been my policy to accept only requests that are in written form. In this manner, should I decide to fulfill the fantasy in question, I have tangible proof of the request and the signature of the guest." Christian nodded understanding. "The system has worked so well that I find myself reluctant to give it up."

"It'd be a major change," Leslie put in. "We've actually talked about it a little bit before. I suggested that we could always print out the e-mailed requests, but that would mean we'd have the extra expenditure for printer paper; and there's no way to put a signature on an e-mail anyway. As it stands now, we go through quite enough paper printing acceptance letters to guests—and it's no ordinary paper either. We use letterhead with a special design that Father thought up years ago, and it costs enough to make that up for our outgoing mail without having to spring for regular paper just to print e-mail."

"I see," Christian said, considering it. "Well, as I see it, there will be a day in the near future when it will in fact be possible to 'sign' an e-mail request; but at the moment, as you said, it's not. There aren't many frills to electronic mail, but I suspect sooner or later it will be possible to choose fonts and append actual written signatures to messages." He focused then and smiled a little. "But, as I said, that's in the future, and you can always reconsider it when the time comes. For now, since your current system is so effective, I think we can make your e-mail accounts strictly personal. Actually, I can create two separate accounts for each of you if you wish, so that one is personal and you can restrict knowledge of it to your closest friends and each other; the other account can be for whatever business needs to be conducted. I'm sure you get business mail that doesn't deal with granting fantasies."

"True," said Leslie. "That sounds good to me. What do you think, Father?"

"I believe that's quite satisfactory," Roarke concurred. "I think we can consider that question settled for the moment, and if there are details to be worked out, we can do that later. Now…what else do you need to know?"

They spent another hour or so discussing details such as photographs of the bungalows and the various amenities, such as beaches and the swimming pool; whether to post photos of the hosts; providing hotel-room rates for those who were looking solely for a vacation on the island; geographical and climatologic information; and even charter-plane schedules between the island and Honolulu International Airport. By the time they had wound up this discussion of preliminaries, they were all amazed at how much time had passed and how quickly it had gone. "Forgive us for taking so much of your time," Roarke said apologetically. "I'm sure you'd like to relax for a while, and it so happens that Leslie and I need to make the rounds and check on our other guests. However, you are very welcome to have dinner here at the house with us."

"Don't apologize, Mr. Roarke. It's been a very productive afternoon. And dinner sounds excellent, thank you," Christian said. "What time should I be here?"

"Drop by around five-thirty or so," Leslie said. "We'll look forward to it."

"So will I," he said, smiling at her again. Once more she smiled back; in fact, his contagious grin was enough to prompt her to offer to take him to his bungalow. He agreed and followed her out of the house, while Roarke watched, already sensing something in the air.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- July 7, 1996

Dinner was a jovial affair; at first the threesome mainly talked business, but soon graduated to a little "getting to know you" small talk, during which Leslie learned that Christian was thirty-eight and the youngest of four children. She found herself summarizing her own childhood and explaining, as she had done on any number of past occasions, how she had come to be Roarke's daughter. However, before she could tell him how she'd be-come assistant, an excited-looking fellow who appeared to be somewhere in his mid-thirties jogged onto the porch, carrying a notebook and pen in one hand. "Mr. Roarke?"

"Good evening, Mr. Schmidt," Roarke said quizzically. "May we help you?"

The visitor stopped short when he realized they were at dinner. "Oh no, I'm interrupting you. I'll come back later."

"No, not at all—we were just finishing," Roarke assured him, smiling.

The man relaxed. "Oh, I see…" Then he spied Christian and stared in amazement. "Mr. Roarke…if I could ask an intrusive question…is that who I think it is?"

Roarke looked puzzled. "Whom do you think it is?"

But Christian understood and laughed. "Not to worry, Mr. Roarke. And yes, sir, I _am_ who you think I am. But don't tell your wife." He winked and flashed that contagious grin again, and sure enough, the visitor responded likewise. "And you might be…?"

"Harry Schmidt," the visitor replied and cleared his throat, as if suddenly reminded of why he'd come here in the first place. "Mr. Roarke, my fantasy's been all it's cracked up to be and more. Mr. Einstein was a real trip to interview, and Mr. Shakespeare gave me some romantic quotes to use on Sandi, so that was a bonus." He looked troubled for a moment. "And I'm trying to learn a few Italian words for when I meet with Galileo tomorrow. Those might impress Sandi too…but anyway." He shrugged off his worried mien and gave Christian a cautiously hopeful look before addressing Roarke again. "The point is, Mr. Roarke, all my interview subjects have been dead for ages. Would it be asking too much if I could have one interview with someone who's still alive?"

Roarke settled back in his chair and smiled again. "Perhaps not, Mr. Schmidt, but that all depends on the availability of whatever subject you wish to interview."

Christian laughed aloud. "I know a request when I hear one. Mr. Roarke, if Mr. Schmidt would like to interview me, I'll be happy to accommodate him." He grinned at Harry Schmidt. "We can arrange an interview time later if you wish."

Schmidt beamed. "Fantastic! Thanks, Mr. Roarke, and thanks to you too, Prince." He sketched a hasty half-bow, shook hands with Roarke and a bewildered Leslie, and then hurried off the veranda.

"Prince?" Leslie echoed, completely at sea.

Roarke raised an eyebrow in Christian's direction, and Christian reddened in response. "I suppose I should have mentioned it before, but I really didn't see any need. In reality, I'm Prince Christian of Lilla Jordsö's royal family. Does that bother you?"

"Another prince?" Leslie said without thinking.

Roarke cast her a look before turning to Christian. "We appreciate your candor, Your Highness. However, I apologize for my daughter. Several years ago, we had the crown prince of Arcolos as a guest here, and he aggressively pursued her, which did not sit well at all with her." Leslie blushed, and Christian's grin appeared again.

"I'm not offended at all, Mr. Roarke, and don't be so hard on Leslie. As I said, I should have told you before. By the way…who precisely was the fellow we saw a moment ago?"

"Ah, yes. One of our weekend guests, Mr. Harry Schmidt of Springfield, Illinois. His fantasy is twofold actually. He wished to interview someone whom it would otherwise not be possible to interview; and he has been trying to reconcile with his wife, Sandi." Roarke hesitated. "You need not have agreed to his request, Your Highness—"

Christian interrupted. "No standing on ceremony, Mr. Roarke. I insist you call me Christian, as I said when I first arrived here. And I was more than happy to agree to Mr. Schmidt's request. I wish only that I could help him with the other part of his fantasy. But I digress. I actually have a very low profile for a royal, so the occasional interview requests don't bother me very much. And Mr. Schmidt seems like a very earnest and pleasant fellow."

"Yes, he's a really nice guy," Leslie said, nodding. "I keep hoping for a chance to talk a bit with Sandi." She focused on Christian. "I'm sorry for reacting the way I did, but the fact is, I'd been thinking ever since you got here that you looked familiar somehow. Now I know why. My friends and I watched your brother's coronation on TV the last week of December, and I remember seeing you among the most prominent dignitaries in the party."

"Guilty as charged," Christian said sheepishly. "My brother is now King Arnulf II. But, since he's the reigning monarch, he gets all the attention, and the rest of us are almost entirely overlooked. I don't mind that, believe me. It allows me to live a more-or-less normal life. So I don't begrudge Mr. Schmidt his interview at all."

"You're very generous, Christian," Roarke said, smiling.

Christian shrugged. "It's a small thing. Mr. Roarke, I thank you heartily for the invitation to dinner, which was most delicious. The company, too, has been very enjoyable." He smiled at Leslie in particular. "Please excuse me, I'm afraid my jet lag has finally begun to catch up with me."

"Of course," Roarke agreed, and he and Leslie both arose when Christian did, watching the prince depart. Christian paused halfway down the veranda to cast a quick look over his shoulder at Leslie, seemed to want to say something, then thought again and continued on his way. Leslie watched him go, wondering.

"Are you all right, Leslie?" Roarke asked.

"Oh, sure," she said, smiling at him with reassurance. "I'll just drop in at the luau for awhile if you don't need me."

Roarke nodded, and she made her way off the veranda in Christian's wake. He in turn watched her, already more aware than she of the seeds of turmoil sprouting rapidly within her. He could see that she had a long emotional battle ahead of her, and though he wished he could spare her that, he knew it was impossible.

§ § § -- July 8, 1996

Christian joined them for breakfast as well, producing a few preliminary sketches for pages on the website and asking for their opinions. Roarke glanced over them, but Leslie had come up with a couple of thoughts the previous evening and now broached them at Christian; so Roarke merely listened to their conversation, observing them unobtrusively but carefully. They were both quite animated, involved in a lively give-and-take that seemed to come to them with unusual ease. The discussion moved into Roarke's study and continued there, with Roarke injecting some ideas of his own here and there.

Then the grandfather clock chimed ten, and Christian stood up straight with alarm. _"Herregud!_ I told Mr. Schmidt I'd meet him at the pool at ten for the interview I promised him, and I'm late! I apologize, Mr. Roarke and Leslie…"

"Not at all," Roarke said, chuckling. "By all means, go ahead." Christian smiled with gratitude and rushed out the French shutters; Roarke looked around and noticed Leslie staring after him, looking torn. "Leslie?"

She started visibly and cleared her throat. "Is there anything I should be doing right now, Father?" she asked, sounding hopeful.

"No," Roarke replied, and her face fell. "Not for at least an hour." He gave her a gently teasing smile. "Would you like me to invent an errand for you to run?"

That made her grin sheepishly. "No, you don't need to go that far." She drew in a deep breath and glanced out the doors again. "But since I seem to have a little free time, I think I'll visit Tattoo's grave."

"Very well. Try to be back by noon," Roarke requested. "It will be time for me to take Mr. Schmidt to seventeenth-century Pisa by then."

"Okay," she agreed and slipped out. Roarke frowned slightly, mild concern welling up within him, for he sensed that now she had begun to notice the subtle attraction that hovered between her and Christian.

She made the trip on foot, arriving about fifteen minutes later with a small bouquet of wildflowers that she'd picked along the way and laying them with great care across the top of Tattoo's headstone. He'd been gone barely a year and she still felt his loss in her quieter moments, although the sharpest pain had now receded enough that she found it easier to recall the happier times, as he had requested of her and Roarke. She stood for a moment, gazing unseeingly at the matching azalea shrubs planted on either side of the stone, then mumbled, "Forgive me, _mon oncle,_ but I guess I need to sit with someone else this time." She then turned and hesitantly picked her way across the ground till she found another headstone in a corner of the little cemetery. Engraved on this were the words _Teppo Komainen: 1963-1990 – Beloved Son and Husband_. She crouched there and settled back on her heels, re-reading the inscription several times over.

Leslie hadn't visited Teppo's grave in longer than she cared to admit, and guiltily she traced the engraved letters of his name. _I've been neglecting you, _kultaseni_, and I didn't mean to,_ she thought with a heavy sigh. _And wouldn't you know it but that when I finally come back to visit you, it's because I'm feeling drawn toward another man. You must be rolling like crazy under all that lovely green grass._ She aimed a self-deprecating, twisted little grin at the headstone, then closed her eyes, calling up the day of their wedding, their various walks around the neighborhood where they'd lived, his fruitless and hilarious attempts to teach her to speak Finnish, their endless optimistic attempts to have a child…so many happy times. Yet when she opened her eyes and stared into the treetops, her mind had wandered again.

"Even the cemeteries on Fantasy Island are gorgeous," remarked an amused voice, and Christian settled down beside her, mirroring her posture and grinning. "Is that by accident or by design?"

Leslie laughed despite herself. "I'm not entirely sure," she said. "Maybe a bit of both. What brings you all the way out here?"

"Oh, Mr. Schmidt finished his interview in record time," he said, "probably because his wife suddenly came into the pool area and he couldn't concentrate on anything but her. Poor man. Did you have a chance to speak with her as you wished to do?"

Leslie nodded pensively. "At the luau last night," she said. "Funny thing, I didn't even have to bring it up. I just paused to ask her how she was doing, and next thing I knew she was unloading on me about her marriage. Maybe she just needed an impartial ear to listen to her, I don't know."

"That's possible," Christian said. "She did come over to ask Mr. Schmidt what he was doing, and he seemed a little flustered. So I told her that he was interviewing me, and in a very professional manner at that, and I also mentioned that she was one quite lucky woman to have such a devoted husband. I saw no harm in saying that, because there was no way he could hide his feelings for her. She was sitting at his table and they were talking when I left, and I hope it means things are beginning to look up for them."

"You have a lot invested in the lives of two strangers," Leslie observed curiously, tempering the remark with a smile.

"Yes, well…I've seen enough unhappy marriages," Christian replied shortly, looking away for a moment. Leslie watched him, a little surprised, but held her tongue, and a few seconds later he turned back to her. "I hope I'm not intruding on a private moment." She shook her head, eyeing the gravestone. He followed her gaze and read the inscription, then leaned forward to gauge her expression. "Someone you knew?"

She nodded, eyes unfocused. "My late husband."

"You've been widowed?" Christian asked in astonishment. "But you're so young!"

"I'm thirty-one," Leslie said with a small smile of appreciation. "Teppo and I were married when I was just twenty, and he died five years later. That's when I came back home to Fantasy Island, and as Father was between assistants at the time, he took me on."

"Teppo is a Finnish name," Christian noted. "How did you meet?"

"Do you really want to know? It's a long story," Leslie warned him playfully.

Christian lowered his chin and peered at her. "The longer, the better. Please tell me."

So Leslie spent about ten minutes or so explaining why Teppo had come to the island and what had happened during his stay. Christian, rendered speechless early on, simply gaped at her with his lower jaw hanging. His expression was so funny to her that when she wound up the tale, she started to laugh.

"What are you laughing at?" he demanded.

"You," she giggled. "As undignified as this might sound, your mouth's open so wide I could drive an eighteen-wheeler into it."

Christian snapped his mouth shut instantly in consternation, and she rocked backwards, laughing harder. "I'm sorry," she gasped, but the next moment he was laughing with her, their voices blending and echoing gently through the trees.

"That's all right, Leslie," he said, still chuckling, as their mirth wound down. "I guess the stories about this place are right after all. You must have seen some amazing things here. I'm very sorry about your husband…though I can understand. I've been widowed as well, although it's been so long since it happened that sometimes it seems as if I was never married at all. Her name was Johanna, and it was an arranged match; she was eighteen and I was just a year older. Three years later she was killed in a train derailment while visiting her parents in Norway—that's where she was from. She was distantly related to the Norwegian royal family. We never fell in love—in fact, we had barely anything in common."

"Oh," said Leslie softly. "I'm sorry, Christian."

"It's all right," he said again. His smile, slow and gentle this time, came back, and he shifted his weight to arise. "I think I've been intruding after all, because I could see that you still miss your Teppo while you told me about him. So I'll leave you alone now." He glided back to a standing position and quietly left the cemetery; she didn't protest, but to her own surprise, she felt a sense of loss nevertheless.

Slowly Leslie turned her attention back to Teppo's headstone and stared blankly at his carved name for a good while before finally asking aloud, "Now what do I do?" For some reason, something occurred to her and she thought to check her watch. She had ten minutes to get back to the main house as Roarke had requested. With a gasp, she shot to her feet and rushed out of the cemetery, forgetting the silent gravestones nestled in the grass.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- July 8, 1996

Christian, who had been invited by Roarke to go to the main house in their absence and see what progress he could make on the site design, had felt the same sense of loss as Leslie, but determinedly pushed the feeling from his mind and concentrated fiercely on his work. When Roarke returned from seeing Harry Schmidt off into the last phase of his fantasy, he was a little surprised to see Christian bent low over a piece of white posterboard, sketching enthusiastically. "It appears you've been making some headway," he said.

Christian sat sharply up in his chair and then wilted a bit, grinning at Roarke. "Yes, I suppose I have. Mostly sketches of possible designs, though. Why don't you look at some of the arrangements I've thought up and see if there are any you like."

"Of course," Roarke agreed. "I apologize if I startled you."

Christian shrugged and said, "It's all right. The finished sketches are on your desk there." He indicated several other pieces of posterboard lying atop one another on the desk. Roarke smiled acknowledgment and sat down to look them over; but he was distracted by the heavy scowl Christian affected as he worked on his latest idea, and at last decided to give in to the urge to ask.

"Forgive me if I am intruding, Christian…but if there is something bothering you, perhaps I can provide some help," Roarke offered gently.

Christian didn't raise his head, but his pencil stopped moving and he sat still for a long moment. When he did look up at last, his hazel eyes carried a troubled gleam. "It's possible that I am the one intruding, Mr. Roarke, but since you offer…tell me, how often does Leslie visit her late husband's grave?"

Roarke's eyebrows shot up; whatever he had been expecting, he reflected to himself with carefully hidden rue, it hadn't been that. "In actual fact, it's rare for her to go to his grave nowadays," he said. "Might I ask why the inquiry?"

"I was walking and I happened to find her at the cemetery," Christian said, speaking a little too quickly, as though he didn't want to talk about it. Instead he asked, "What sort of marriage did they have?"

Roarke smiled unconsciously with the memory. "Theirs was a genuine love match," he recalled. "She was devastated by his death, and it took her more than a year to fully adjust to widowhood. For most of that time, she still often cried whenever someone mentioned his name. However, the passage of time seems to have been good for her, although obviously she will always reserve a piece of her heart for him. He was her first true love; in fact, so far, he has been the only man she ever fell in love with."

Christian looked stricken, just for a moment, but long enough for Roarke to notice. The prince cleared his features swiftly when he realized Roarke had focused on him and gave a stiff nod. "I see," he said quietly. "I too am a widower, although I must admit, the loss of my wife had nothing close to the impact on me that Teppo's death apparently had on Leslie. However…if, as you say, she still misses him to some degree, then I respect that." He cleared his throat and turned back to his latest sketch, as if to signal that the subject was closed; but Roarke, watching him surreptitiously from time to time, could easily see the effort Christian had to make in order to concentrate on his work.

Some twenty minutes later Leslie entered the room. "Hi, Father…hello, Christian." Her greeting to Roarke was informal, that for Christian slightly hesitant and quizzical. Roarke looked up and smiled at her, but did not miss the way Christian's head came up all at once and the way his face lit with that intoxicating grin.

"Hello, Leslie," both men said simultaneously, and she grinned in reply, taking the chair beside Christian.

"I see you've been busy," she remarked. "Is there anything definite yet?"

Roarke handed her Christian's previous sketches across the desk. "There are some very promising possibilities here. What catches your eye?" It seemed to be a cue, and for a while they all concentrated on bringing the website closer to reality. But Christian seemed strangely relaxed now, while Leslie appeared in her father's eyes to be quite receptive to his friendly, open grins. Eventually, when the phone rang and the weekend's other fantasizing guest turned out to be the caller, they took this as a cue to call a halt for the moment and agreed to meet later that evening.

‡ ‡ ‡

Crown Prince Christian Carl Tobias Enstad of Lilla Jordsö ruminated very carefully on the situation as he understood it from Leslie's actions and Roarke's remarks, trying to reconcile it with Leslie's cheerful friendliness of just now. Well, it had been six years, he told himself, and she seemed to have moved on with her life. Heaven knew he had long since gotten on with his. To be totally honest, Johanna's death had been a relief. Of course, he had been sorry for the way she'd died; but the event had set him free from what had promised to be a very poor match. Yet in the sixteen years he'd been widowed, no other woman had ever quite caught his interest in the way that Leslie Hamilton had.

Her apparent reception of him in the main house a few minutes ago seemed at odds with the mental picture he'd been forming of a young widow still working through her grief for her first love. She was such a fascinating mystery, he thought, and he wanted to know all there was to know about her. Who was she and how had she, of all people, come under Roarke's protective wing? What had happened in her life that had brought her to the place and position she was in now? He knew little more than the surface details: she had been orphaned shortly after becoming a teenager and had been transferred to Roarke's custody; she had been married and widowed quite young; and she clearly had strong emotional ties to the man she called father. _She must be a woman who feels very deeply,_ Christian decided, smiling at the notion. Someone with that much capability for love would be worth fighting for, worth giving his whole heart and soul to.

_Yes, I'll do it,_ he thought. _I'll take the chance and see if Leslie returns my interest. It could very well be the most wonderful gamble I ever made._ With a lighter step he jogged the rest of the way to his bungalow and let himself in, laying the assorted design sketches atop a glass-and-brushed-steel coffee table and going to the bedroom to change into swim trunks for a planned walk along the beach.

The phone rang as he was crossing the room and he detoured to an end table to pick it up. "Enstad," he said, employing his usual telephone greeting.

"So, _lill'bror,_ you are still on Fantasy Island," said an authoritative voice in the _jordiska_ dialect of Swedish that all citizens of Lilla Jordsö used. Christian tried to suppress a sigh. Only Arnulf persisted in calling him "little brother", a term that had always rankled with him. The ten years Arnulf had on Christian had given the older man the idea that he was allowed to control his younger brother's life. "When are you returning home?"

"When my work here is done," Christian replied in the same tongue. _Jordisk-svenska_, or _jordiska_ in the vernacular, still came more easily to him than English, even though he had begun learning the latter language before his fifth birthday. "Don't hold your breath, Arnulf. It may be some time. Mr. Roarke himself has requested that I design a website for the island, and I'm determined that it will be flawless."

"You spend too much time on that business of yours and not enough on official affairs of state," King Arnulf II said. "You may not be king, Christian, but you are still royalty, and as such, you do have duties pertaining thereto. It's time you began to fulfill those duties."

"Exactly what duties would those be?" Christian asked with strained patience. "If all you mean is the occasional formal dinner with other European royal houses, or playing host to visiting presidents and assorted dignitaries on their sightseeing tours…why don't you delegate that task to Anna-Kristina or Gabriella? They're both old enough, certainly. You don't need me for that. If I am useful in only that capacity…"

"Quite frankly, _lill'bror_, you're becoming repetitive with that litany of yours," Arnulf broke in. "But before I let you sidetrack me, I called to remind you that it's time for you to fulfill your end of the bargain we struck six months after Johanna died."

Christian stared blankly at the wall, groping through his memory for some hint of what Arnulf was talking about. "What bargain?"

Anger tinged Arnulf's voice. "Don't try to pretend you can't remember," he snapped. "You are contracted with the younger daughter of an Italian count, and when she came of age the two of you were to be wed. At the time she was barely old enough to go to school. Now she is twenty-one and ready to marry, and you are the designated groom. You must come back home immediately."

Incensed, Christian exploded. _"Herregud,_ Arnulf, I can't simply walk out in the middle of a job! You yourself warned me that Father's policies wouldn't change once you became king, and that now, as then, I would not be allowed to live off the royal coffers. How do you expect me to make a living—never mind support this alleged fiancée you claim I have?"

Arnulf seemed surprised. "All right, _lill'bror_, calm down. Can't you think back to the day Marina arrived here with her father? For such a small girl, she was impeccably well-behaved, and all of us agreed that she would make the perfect consort for a younger prince such as you. She was a lovely child, too…long dark curls and intelligent eyes…"

"You seem enthralled with the girl. Why don't you set her aside for one of Carl Johan's boys?" Christian suggested sarcastically. "I don't remember being present at this agreement of yours. Did I even sign the contract?"

There was a silence before Arnulf spoke; the harshness of his voice didn't completely conceal the underlying uneasiness. "There was no need. Our father signed on your behalf, and the count on Marina's."

"So I had no say in my own life even after I was of age and widowed once already," Christian said slowly, his voice freezing over with every word. "Tell me, Arnulf, have you any idea how old I really am? Even now you continue to call me 'little brother', no matter how many times I ask you to stop. My life is my own and I insist on being left to make my own choices. I have an interest in a woman already, and it's not Marina. Contract or not, I want you to get me out of this wedding. I don't feel particularly obliged to carry through, since it's not my signature on the document."

"Do you realize what that would mean?" Arnulf raged. "Reneging on a marriage agreement?…"

"You can't enforce something so archaic," Christian shot back. "No one has any right to control others like this. Marriage contracts have been obsolete for decades, Arnulf. I refuse to dignify this farce by agreeing to go through with it. Tell the count and his daughter that I've changed my mind. There's nothing you can do about it—_far_ didn't bother to get my consent, and that means I'm not obligated. Do it, Arnulf. I refuse to let you attempt to pull any more puppet strings on me. Don't contact me again unless it's to tell me the contract has been canceled, do you understand me?" Without waiting for an answer, he hung up with a furious bang. How dare he…? Fuming, Christian stalked into the bedroom and swiftly changed clothes; he needed a long hard run on the nearest beach to cool down before he was fit to be around people again.

An hour and a half later, he had run himself into sheer exhaustion and was on his way back to his bungalow to shower and change again—and of course, that's when he ran into Leslie. She brightened at sight of him and then grinned. "I see you've been getting in some serious exercise."

Red-faced, Christian shrugged and essayed a return grin. "I apologize for my current condition, but I promise you, I clean up well." They both laughed. "Before you go, Leslie, I'd like to ask something. If you can get away, perhaps you'd consent to have dinner with me at the pond restaurant this evening? I understand the food is excellent."

She considered it for just a moment, thinking over her schedule, then found herself nodding agreement, despite the spontaneous generation of butterflies in her gut. "I'd like that very much, Christian. What time should I be ready?"

His eyes lit and he beamed. "Wonderful! I'll stop at the main house for you at six, if that's enough time."

"It's more than enough. I'll be ready and waiting," Leslie promised. He grinned yet again, bade her a quick goodbye and jogged away toward his bungalow, as if he had found his second wind. Leslie shook her head slightly to herself, happy yet surprised at herself all at once. _Oh, lighten up, Leslie Susan. It's just a dinner date. Can't you enjoy an evening out with a really nice guy for a change?_ Thus resolved, she headed back to the main house.


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- July 8, 1996

When she was ready she returned downstairs, where Roarke had arrived while she was dressing and applying makeup. "Did Mr. Schmidt's fantasy go okay?" she asked.

"Yes, I believe he is quite satisfied," said Roarke, reading through phone messages as he spoke, "and I understand that he and his wife have been having several heart-to-heart discussions this weekend. And Ms. Blaisdell is—" At that exact moment he looked up and cut himself off at sight of her. "You're dressed for an evening out!"

Leslie nodded. "I'm having dinner with Christian."

Roarke stared at her, very surprised. "Indeed!"

She sighed gently. "Father, it's just a dinner date. I like him, and I think he'd be a very good friend."

Roarke nodded slowly, one eyebrow slightly higher than the other, as though he didn't quite believe her. "Well, you do seem to get along well," he observed after a moment. He smiled then. "I wish you an enjoyable evening."

"Thank you," she said and returned his smile. "I won't be late."

"Oh, don't trouble yourself about that," Roarke replied warmly. "Just have a good time, sweetheart. You need not let me know you're back if you arrive home late."

"Well enough," she agreed. "See you later on." She exited the room and had just crossed to the top of the veranda steps when Christian pulled up in a rover that Roarke had put at his disposal for the duration of his stay on the island. He stopped and got out, coming to meet her on the steps and extending a hand to her, unable to take his eyes off her.

"You're lovely, Leslie," he said, wide-eyed, taking in her teal-blue sheath and the rainbow-gem bracelet that encircled her wrist, her shining hair, her face with its embarrassed smile. "Truly lovely. I'll be the envy of every other man in the restaurant."

"Oh, stop," she mumbled, her gaze dropping to the ground. "I'm not that pretty."

"Shush," he scolded gently and slipped a finger under her chin to tilt her head back till she had to look at him. "You are to me, and that's all that matters. Come on."

She couldn't quite remember the ride to the restaurant; her mind kept replaying his quiet compliments, as if she had never received any such in her life before. When some corner of her memory pointedly presented the fact that Teppo had often complimented her that way, she determinedly shoved it aside. Teppo wasn't here, and Christian deserved her full attention. Besides, she really did like him. Prince he might be, but he was so far removed from her image of royalty that she always felt at ease with him, and she realized she didn't want him to regret having asked for her company this evening.

They were seated and given menus, and Christian peered impishly at her over the top of his. "What do you recommend here?"

"Anything you've never tried before," she replied whimsically.

"That would be everything on the menu," he retorted, and she snickered, making him laugh. "What a sweet sight, seeing you smile! Truly, do you have a favorite dish here?"

Leslie nodded. "The ginger pancakes with crab meat has always been my indulgence whenever I eat here. Someone clued me in on it years ago, and I didn't think I'd like it, but one bite and I got hooked. But if you aren't quite sure, I can give you a bite of mine and you can see if you like it."

Christian's expression grew comically insulted. "Are you suggesting I am afraid to try something new?"

Leslie shrugged with overdone innocence. "If the shoe fits…"

They gave each other playfully narrow-eyed glares across the tops of their menus; then both began laughing at the same moment. "I'll try it," Christian declared. "In fact, it sounds intriguing. And I see this place has only the very best of vintage wines. _Herregud_, there is even Dom Perignon! Don't tell me, you have that every evening."

"I've had it once in my entire life," Leslie said. "Father insisted on serving it at Tattoo's wedding. I had just turned eighteen and I remember being thrilled at having a full glass all to myself. Haven't tasted it since then, though."

Christian grinned. "Then you'll taste it again this evening, and you can have all the full glasses you like until there's none left in the bottle. And while you're having that with your exotic ginger pancakes and crab, you can tell me about Tattoo. I know of him only as an artist. Was he a friend of your father?"

"That and much more," Leslie said reminiscently. "He was Father's assistant for more than twenty years, and he's the nearest thing I ever had to an uncle. When he got married, he took his wife back to Paris and started forging his art career there. I guess he was more successful than even he had hoped to be. He gained such fame with his paintings that many people, especially in Europe, have no idea he was Father's assistant for so long." She smiled sadly. "When he died last year, it felt as though I'd lost another piece of my family."

At that point the waiter arrived and they put in their orders; when he was gone, Christian turned back to Leslie and nodded solemnly. "I noticed his headstone in the cemetery yesterday. I'm sorry, Leslie. I can see you were very close to him."

"I visited him a little less than two years before he passed on," she said. "The house just bowled me over, it's so beautiful. As a matter of fact, he was the second of three stops I made on a month-long trip. I was in Arcolos before that, and after I left Tattoo's, I spent a little time on Lilla Jordsö. I have a friend who turned out to have been born there."

Christian sat up with excited interest. "You have been to my home island, and somehow I missed meeting you?" he exclaimed with a grin, and she rolled her eyes, making him laugh again. "What brought you there, seriously?"

Leslie told him about her grandmother's trip there and, when he persisted, went on to regale him with the story of how she had stumbled serendipitously across Frida's birth family. He knew, of course, about the Liljefors clan, and his interest grew more animated than ever when she told him Frida was one of theirs. "I always believed they got more than their share of persecution," Christian commented, "but they have always kept so much to themselves that I believe they were suspicious of anyone and everyone. I'm afraid even I had trouble sorting out rumors from truth. I'm glad you could help them along with your friend. Their inn is doing quite a business now, and they are no longer so feared and despised, so that they need not live in the shadows." He stopped, frowned slightly and then focused on her again. "But if you were so caught up in uncovering your friend's origins, and then left as soon as you had all your information, you must have seen very little of my country."

Leslie blushed. "I plead guilty, your honor. Why don't you do the talking now and tell me about some of the things I missed?"

They chatted amiably over dinner, one topic running easily into the next, growing very much at ease and discovering new things about each other. They lingered long after the food and wine were gone, still talking. Finally Leslie noticed something odd and looked around, then gasped. They were the only ones left in the restaurant now, and some of the waiters were in the entryway, clearly getting ready to go home for the night.

"I think we'd better give those poor slobs the night off," she said sheepishly and got to her feet; Christian swiftly followed suit, pulling out his wallet and making sure to leave a very generous tip. They both apologized to the staff on their way out the door and made a hasty exit, their sheepish laughter melting into the night.

"Did we really do that to those poor people?" Christian groaned, grinning. "I feel terrible. But I just couldn't stop talking. I don't think I've ever had such a wonderful time with anyone else."

"I had a fabulous time myself," Leslie agreed. "I hope the staff doesn't complain to Father later. I can't believe how much we talked!"

"I hate to stop," Christian said, navigating the Ring Road back towards the main house. "It seems to me as if you and I were just getting started."

Leslie giggled. "Maybe it was the Dom Perignon, but my sense of time just vanished completely. It can't be all that late."

Christian glanced at his watch as they passed under a street lamp. "I don't like to be the bearer of bad news, but it's well after midnight. I guess I had better take you directly home, so that your father doesn't decide to hire a different website designer."

"No, he told me not to worry about what time I got back," Leslie assured him. "And I'm glad he didn't…it's been an absolutely wonderful evening."

Christian pulled into the lane and around the bend. "So it has." He stopped the rover beside the fountain, parked and got out, and came around to help her out of the vehicle and walk her to the door. They were suddenly quiet then, both reluctant to end the evening even though they were beginning to feel distinctly tired and sleepy.

They faced each other a little self-consciously; but before Leslie could clear her throat in a nervous gesture, Christian folded her hands in his. "May I see you again?"

"Of course," she managed in a half-croak, half-whisper, and had to clear her throat after all. "Yes, I really would like that. Father and I have to see our guests off in the morning, but we're always back here by nine."

"I should be around by ten then, so that we can put the final site design in place and I can begin to set things up," he mused. "That will be a good start. However, I want to see you outside work conditions, if you think you'll have any spare time."

"Monday's mostly cleanup day from the weekend," Leslie said. "I usually have afternoons free, and that's most often the time I catch up with my friends."

"Then what time can I call for you? I thought you and I might see some of the island together," he said.

"Oh, just come over. I don't have any plans at all for tomorrow." In spite of herself she yawned and then ducked her head in embarrassment. "That's not a reflection on you!"

Christian burst into quiet laughter. "Perhaps not, but I can certainly take a hint! I guess I've kept you awake past your bedtime, so I should say good night."

Leslie looked up, peeking at him through her bangs and smiling almost shyly. "Sleep well, Christian, and thank you so much for the evening…I enjoyed every second."

"I as well," he said softly, but lingered there, still holding her hands, studying her face. She felt those butterflies flap their way into life again in her stomach, as though some sixth sense had kicked in; then he lifted their joined hands, pressed hers against his chest right over his heart, leaned slowly forward and kissed her. It was no chaste kiss either, but one with clear intent, one that told her in no uncertain terms that he was strongly attracted to her and hoped to take this relationship further.

Leslie might have been scared off by the blatant message his kiss sent her, but the wine had apparently gone to her head just enough to silence her mental warning bells, and she returned his kiss in almost equal measure. It lasted longer than either of them had quite planned it to, and when at last he drew back, her head was spinning.

Christian seemed a little dazed as well. After a moment he blinked and gave his head one quick, hard shake, as though to clear it. "It's either you or the wine, and I'd much prefer to think it's you," he murmured. "I'll not sleep all night now." He couldn't seem to resist placing one soft, swift kiss on her lips before releasing her. "Go inside, quickly."

She smiled. "Good night." And she slipped into the house, closing the door quietly, knowing she wasn't likely to sleep either. Unwilling to turn on a light in the dark house and dispel the magic of the moment, she picked her way across the study and up the stairs to her own room, where she changed clothes in the dark and slipped under the covers, reliving that kiss till she finally did fall asleep in spite of herself.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- July 9, 1996

Harry and Sandi Schmidt faced Roarke and Leslie at the plane dock Monday morning, both smiling broadly, each with an arm wrapped securely around the other. "This weekend must have been the best one we ever had," Harry said, beaming. "You gave me the chance to do something I always dreamed of, and you gave me back the love of my life in the process. Thanks a million, Mr. Roarke and Leslie."

"From me too," Sandi said. "Thanks for being there at the luau Saturday night too, Leslie. I was always getting advice from everyone, but you just sat there and listened, and let me ramble, and that's what finally made me see that I really needed to meet Harry halfway. I think we're gonna make it now."

"That's great," Leslie said warmly.

"It is indeed," Roarke concurred. "We wish both of you the best of luck and much happiness, and may your marriage be long and blissful."

"Maybe we'll come back for a second honeymoon," Harry offered.

Sandi grinned. "Great idea, honey! Thanks again." They all shook hands, and Leslie and Roarke watched the couple, securely in each other's embrace, amble off to the docking ramp, accepting leis all the way to the plane.

"I'm so glad when we get happy endings like that," Leslie said, still gazing dreamily after the Schmidts. "They both had so much going for them, and they obviously were still in love with each other…they just needed to see it in each other, not just themselves."

Roarke smiled. "The key is communication—one of the most vital ingredients in any relationship. And I believe Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt have rediscovered it." He let a beat or two pass, then regarded her curiously. "I never heard you come in last night. Frankly, I'm surprised you managed to be here to see our guests off."

She shrugged, turning pink. "To tell you the truth, Father, I'm pretty surprised myself. I think I'm operating on all of about four hours' worth of sleep. I wanted to throw the alarm clock out the window when it went off."

Roarke laughed. "Apparently your evening with Christian was a great success. I'm happy to see that you enjoyed yourself. What time has he planned to resume work on the website today?"

"He said he'd be over around ten," Leslie said. "That should give us time to take care of whatever needs to be done before we get back to work on that."

Roarke immediately noticed a difference in the atmosphere surrounding Christian and Leslie when the prince arrived with his notes and designs; they seemed self-conscious at first, casting each other frequent furtive glances, before Christian asked, "What do you think about having both your photos posted on the site? Perhaps just a little personal information as well, such as how you happened to acquire Fantasy Island and begin operating it as the unique business it is?"

Leslie looked dubious. "I don't know," she demurred. "When I went overseas two years ago, people recognized me from what was then the latest brochure we'd had printed up and shipped to travel agencies around the world. It was really weird, and I'm not sure I like the feeling. But if Father wants to…"

"No, I think not," Roarke said. "There's no need to publicize ourselves; we are focusing on the resort and the business, not the proprietor and his assistant."

"I understand," Christian said and then eyed Leslie sidelong. "Anyhow, who would want to see such a homely face on their computer screens?"

"You watch out, or I'll decorate yours with a matched set of shiners," Leslie retorted. Christian's eyes widened, and then they both exploded with laughter, surprising Roarke yet again but evoking a slightly puzzled smile from him. After that, the banter flowed back and forth like water in a stream; Christian and Leslie were both aware that Roarke found their give-and-take a bit bewildering, although he occasionally joined in with an unexpected bon mot that made them roar with merriment.

They had agreed on the home page and two sub-pages for the site before they decided to break up the business meeting for the day and attend to other matters. Christian turned to Leslie at that point and asked, "So are you free, as you mentioned last evening?"

"As far as I know," Leslie said and deferred to Roarke. "Father?"

Roarke looked thoughtfully at her, then smiled. "There's nothing pressing, no, so you may have the rest of the day to yourself. Christian, if you wish, you might join us for dinner this evening, unless you and Leslie have made other plans."

"That sounds wonderful, Mr. Roarke, thank you." Christian turned to Leslie. "Let me go and change my clothes, and then we can spend our day exploring the island."

"Sure," she said. He left the house, and Roarke promptly reached across the desk and caught Leslie's arm before she could head for the stairs.

"One moment," he said. "It appears to me that yours and Christian's friendship has reached a new level, since you and he exchanged a great many friendly insults." His dark eyes had that amused gleam in them, and she grinned.

"I think it has," she agreed. "We just couldn't stop talking all the way through dinner. The poor waiters at the restaurant were hanging around the door hoping we'd finally get the hint and let them go home." She giggled sheepishly at his raised eyebrow. "It's just fun to be with him, and he's so different from the usual image of royalty, I keep forgetting he's a prince. I can't remember when I've been this much at ease with a friend, so soon after first meeting. I really do enjoy his company."

Roarke nodded contemplatively. "I see. In that case, enjoy yourselves, and I'll see you both at dinner this evening." He watched her trot upstairs to change her clothes, well aware that there was more to this so-called friendship than Leslie let on—more than perhaps even she herself was aware of. He had no intention of putting any roadblocks in their way: on the contrary, he was very pleased. It was long past time Leslie let down the guard she kept around her heart.

Over the next several days, Christian and Leslie spent as much of their free time together as possible; in the meantime, Christian began to put the actual website together on the computer, and by Friday afternoon the home page had been uploaded to the Internet along with four sub-pages. By then the two had been all over the island: they'd done horseback riding, gone swimming, rented bikes, visited the amusement park and even gone to the casino, where Christian had lost about a hundred dollars before wisely calling it quits. On Friday, Christian did the uploading alone in the main house, since both Roarke and Leslie were busy making the final preparations for the weekend guests' arrival. They came back together about four-thirty and found Christian sitting at the computer, testing the live version of the new site.

"How goes it?" Roarke inquired amiably, as he and Leslie approached the computer desk to peer over Christian's shoulder at his creation.

"I'm just testing the first five pages now," Christian said. "The home page seems to be working with no problems. I've been able to easily access the accommodations page, the pricing and airfare page, the amenities page and the page with the charter-plane schedules. All that's left to put together now is the page for those who wish to request fantasies."

"How exactly are you thinking of planning that, Father?" Leslie asked with interest.

"As we discussed before," Roarke said, "I still prefer that people mail in their fantasy requests. Quite frankly, Christian, I don't think there will be much to that particular web page. The price of a fantasy is highly negotiable, and I cannot assign a dollar amount to any particular one. There are as many individual fantasies as there are individuals."

Leslie tipped her head. "But we do have the perennials," she pointed out. "Remember how Tattoo always used to complain about having to play the title role in countless Red Baron fantasies? That one's still a pretty hot seller, and there are the other usual suspects—being a millionaire; being a movie star, a rock star, a famous author or artist, or a model; wanting to meet a favorite celebrity; being royalty for a weekend…"

"That's a common fantasy?" Christian broke in, interest piqued by Leslie's last example. "If only they knew how tedious being royal can be!"

Leslie grinned. "Christian, dear heart, some things can't be learned except through experience, and that just happens to be one of them. Most people who have that fantasy leave here feeling kind of sorry for Princess Diana."

Christian laughed. "I'm sure they do. How often do you get that request?"

"At least twice a month," Leslie told him and turned back to her father. "So since we do have a lot of repeat fantasies, it might be worthwhile to list the most popular ones, maybe the top ten or something, and figure out some sort of going rate for them."

Roarke thought about it for a moment and nodded. "That's a good point, Leslie," he said. "Very well, you and I can work that out later this evening after we have completed the preparations for the weekend and have had dinner. I believe the design for that page will be very simple, Christian, and it should take you hardly any time at all to add to the site."

Christian smiled. "I agree. All right, then, other than that, your site is ready." He stood up and extended a hand toward the computer. "If you'd like to examine it yourself, Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke agreed and sat in front of the computer, navigating through the different pages while Leslie looked on from beside him. "Very well done," Roarke said, impressed. "I am extremely pleased with the final result, Christian, and should anyone ask, I will highly recommend your services. I thank you most heartily."

"Thank _you_, Mr. Roarke, and I appreciate the recommendation. Your endorsement will be the most persuasive one I've ever received." They all laughed. "Is there anything else you need at the moment?"

"No, and Leslie is free for the remainder of the evening," Roarke added with a smile. "Why don't you two enjoy yourselves, and do come back for dinner. Mariki has noted the fact that you two have been eating out rather often, and has taken rather vocal exception to it. Your presence here will reassure her."

"Plus, it'll stop her complaining," Leslie added knowingly, smirking. "I guess you've had to bear the brunt of her carrying on. Okay, tell her we'll be here, but see if she can wait till about seven to serve the meal, if that's all right with you."

Roarke said, "That should be satisfactory. I have quite a bit of work to clear up here at any rate. Enjoy your afternoon, you two."

Deciding they had earned a good rest, they changed into swimsuits and met at the fountain in the lane, taking a jeep from there and heading for a quiet beach some distance removed from the more populated ones frequented by guests. Leslie parked the jeep in a turnaround on the Ring Road and led the way down a series of stone steps painstakingly set in the ground centuries before by native islanders. A warm, salt-encrusted breeze freshened as they descended to the beach and plowed through the fine sand almost to the waterline.

"This looks good," Leslie decided and dropped a beach bag and a towel onto the sand. "I think I'll go wading for a bit. Want to join me?"

Christian sighed and dropped his own gear, then indulged in a long luxurious stretch. "No, all I want is to lie flat and not think about anything. You enjoy yourself over there, but come back and lie beside me. Looking at you will help me not to think."

She peered at him with some confusion. "Is that good or bad?"

"It's extremely good," Christian said, chuckling at her puzzled look. "Believe me, every time you're around, I lose the ability to think, because you intoxicate me. Wait here before you go anywhere." Leaving her standing there, he jogged across the sand back toward the stone steps they'd just descended, where an unusual rosebush maintained a tenacious grip on some hidden soil in the cliff about halfway up. Leslie watched him climb up to its level, pluck off one of the many blooms that crammed its branches, and return to her, slicing off the thorns with a pocket knife on his way back.

"What are you doing with that?" she asked.

"Putting it here," he said, reaching up to twine the stem of the little flower in her hair. "I've never seen a rose of this color before." It was pale yellow with deep magenta outlining the end of each petal in a short crescent.

"Oh…those are exclusive to Fantasy Island," Leslie said. "They grow wild all over the place here, but this is the only spot on earth you'll ever find them."

"Then it's rare enough to befit you," he returned with a smile. "There. Does it have a name, even a botanical one?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. They're so common around here, I think we've all stopped really noticing them."

He cradled her face in his hands and tilted her head back a little. "Then I think I'll call it the Leslie Rose. And maybe you, too." He grinned at her when she rolled her eyes. "All right, my Leslie Rose, go do your wading and have some fun. I'll be stretched out on my towel, soaking up the sun and waiting for you."

"Just for the record," she said with a teasing grin, "my name isn't Leslie Rose, it's Leslie Susan. I thought you might want to know that."

"I like my name for you better," Christian said dismissively, and she laughed before heading toward the ocean. He grinned, watching her with appreciation, then spread out his towel and lay back on it, folding his arms behind his head and closing his eyes.

Leslie cooled her tired feet in the shallows and let the waves break over her shins, watching the tiny white triangles of sailboats crossing the ocean from a marina that served the Enclave. After about fifteen minutes or so, she strolled back toward where Christian lay, his features relaxed; he appeared to have dozed off. She eyed him, then smiled wickedly to herself and pulled out a bottle of sunscreen from her bag, unscrewing the cap and going back to the water to fill it. When she came back, she stood where she wouldn't block the sun shining on him and alert him to her presence, and slowly tipped the cap till the water poured out onto his chest.

Christian bolted into a sitting position and shouted something very loud and rude-sounding in Swedish; Leslie dropped the cap and fled, bursting into laughter at the same time. "You won't get away with that!" Christian bellowed after her and scrambled to his feet in hot pursuit. She pounded down the beach and he followed, rapidly gaining on her, both of them laughing, till he eventually caught up and snagged her from behind.

"Now you'll pay for that," Christian growled at her in exaggerated rage, pulling a playful ogre-like grimace that made her laugh all the harder and robbed her of what little breath she had left. "I have you exactly where I want you."

Leslie struggled to get enough air to talk. "And just where would that be?"

His features softened and grew serious. "Right here in my arms," he replied, and so saying, he kissed her. It was actually the first time he'd done so since their initial dinner date the previous Sunday evening, and it was completely unexpected to Leslie, who had settled into a lively friendship with Christian. But this time there was no wine affecting her senses—and she still fell headlong into the kiss, returning it with fervor equal to his.

Minutes, or eons, drifted by; she had no idea which and didn't care. When at last he drew back from her, she felt bereft, even though he gathered her in close and trailed soft wisps of kisses along her cheek toward her hair. "I love you, my Leslie Rose," he breathed, so softly she barely heard it. Caught in his spell, she didn't react, merely let herself steep in his embrace and the scent and feel of him. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on his shoulder, reveling in the welcome warmth of his hands roaming her back and his face in her hair as he nuzzled her and murmured now and then in his native tongue.

Then the screech of a seagull broke through their dreamy detachment from the world and made them look up and around them. The sun was about to sink into the sea and there were long shadows across the sand from the escarpment behind them.

"I suppose we should go back," Christian said reluctantly, slowly releasing Leslie. "I wouldn't want to be late for dinner and subject poor Mr. Roarke to more of your Mariki's grumbling." He smiled teasingly, but the mood was still mellow, and she simply smiled back and nodded.

"Well, then, let's go. Don't forget your stuff." They walked back hand in hand now, neither in a particular hurry, and gathered their belongings in a comfortable silence, climbing the stone steps back to where the jeep waited for them. Christian took the wheel this time and they drove back to the main house, speculating on what Mariki might be serving for dinner and laughing when they got there and found they were right on several counts.

Both exhausted, they parted ways for the night, and Roarke settled behind the desk once more to clear away the last of the day's mail while Leslie retreated to her room. After a good hour or so, Roarke looked at the clock and realized she had never come back down; the house was unusually silent. It was almost nine-thirty and probably a good time to stop working, he decided. He tidied the desk, turned out the lamp and made his way upstairs, noticing halfway up that there were no lights on in the upper rooms. Frowning in surprise, he topped the steps and turned on the hallway light, glancing into Leslie's room and then looking again, more closely. The light revealed her sitting on the bed, staring into space.

Concerned, Roarke moved into the room and turned on her bedside lamp, reaching out and laying a hand on her shoulder. "Leslie, what's wrong?"

She turned her head and stared at him; the sight oddly reminded him of her as a teenager, with the frightened, pleading, lost look she had so often had in her first days on the island. "I didn't want to do it," she said in a helpless voice. "I told myself it was just friendship, but it still happened, and I can't deal with it. I can't keep going on like this."

Roarke settled onto the bed beside her. "Like what?"

"I've been falling in love with Christian," Leslie said as if making a confession. "I tried not to, but I couldn't stop it!"

Roarke regarded her with a knowing, sympathetic smile, reaching out and smoothing her hair back from her face. "Now tell me, child, why on earth would you wish to stop it? Are you so frightened of your feelings for him?"

"But what about Teppo?" Leslie protested.

Understanding dawned. "Ah," Roarke murmured. "You feel that you are betraying Teppo's memory." She nodded vigorously. "Leslie, sweetheart, finding love again is not a betrayal of the love you shared with Teppo. Far from it: it's a renewal, an affirmation of life and living. It means that you have moved ahead and gone on with your life."

"But he'd…" Leslie began.

Roarke shook his head, smiling a little. "Leslie, think back to the first fantasy you helped to grant after you became my assistant. You told me that you saw Teppo's spirit for a few moments, and that he spoke to you to say goodbye. Do you remember what he said?"

She cast her mind back six years and reviewed Teppo's words, wondering what her father was getting at. "We talked about the vial, and the choices I made after he died…"

"Yes, go on," Roarke encouraged.

Leslie closed her eyes to concentrate on the memory. "He said I did exactly the right thing with that vial of tears his mother had kept, and that he and I could both go on—"

"Exactly so," Roarke broke in gently, making her open her eyes and stare at him in surprise. "He said that _you could go on_. He never meant for you to put your heart in storage for the sake of his memory, my child. Believe me, he wouldn't want you to bury yourself in the past, to become a walking monument to him and prevent yourself from living your life to its fullest." He placed two fingers under her chin and lifted her head. "Give in to the love you are feeling for Christian, Leslie. Let yourself go. Give yourself and Christian—and Teppo as well—the gift of opening your heart to him, and see where it takes you. Love is too precious and elusive an emotion to turn away when it comes to you."

She processed this for a minute. "So you think Teppo would approve if he knew?"

"There is no doubt in my mind," Roarke assured her, his smile broadening. "Accept the emotion, sweetheart. More than that—welcome it, revel in it. Let it take you where it will. You'll find yourself rewarded many times over." He took in the lingering doubt in her eyes. "Loving Christian doesn't take anything away from your love for Teppo. There will always be a place for him in your heart. But the best thing you can do with your love is to give it to a living recipient—and it will be returned to you in equal measure."

Leslie considered that and finally nodded slowly. "That makes sense," she said, and peered up at Roarke a touch sheepishly. "In all honesty, I wanted to let myself fall, but I just felt as if I were celebrating when Teppo couldn't be with me."

"Life should be _lived_," Roarke said with quiet conviction. "Your mother would have told you that, and so would Teppo. That is the best tribute you can make to those who have departed this existence. Remember them, yes—but never let it rule your every decision. They would never want that for you. If you are indeed in love with Christian, then by all means, don't resist."

A smile gradually spread over her features, and she leaned forward and hugged him. "You know, the more I think about it, the more I think you're right. Thank you, Father. Where in the world do you get all that wisdom?"

"Life, pure and simple," Roarke replied, grinning. "Now, since we both must be up early tomorrow, I suggest you get some sleep." He patted her shoulder and arose. "Good night, Leslie."

"See you in the morning," she said and watched him leave, a small reflective smile on her features. _Maybe, just maybe, it's okay to give my heart. Let's see where this takes us._ With that thought in mind, she snapped out the lamp and slid beneath the bedcovers, looking forward to whatever lay ahead.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- July 14, 1996

As luck would have it, two of their fantasizing guests—longtime best friends from Sioux Falls, South Dakota—had always been fascinated by, and followed the doings of, royalty from all countries that still had royal families. Their fantasy, naturally, was to be princesses for just one weekend, "just to see what it's like," in Gina Clay's words. So when she and Marcy Beaumont hosted a royal ball as part of their fantasy, Christian—having been told by Roarke what was happening, and having agreed to play up his own royal status—asked Leslie to be his escort to the party.

"I don't think I have a suitable dress," she protested, startled. Up till then the tentative plan had been for Roarke to discreetly supervise the ball and Leslie to make the usual rounds, including dropping in at the luau.

Roarke raised an eyebrow. "Leslie Susan Hamilton, of all the people on earth, how could you fail to remember where you are? There will be a dress for you, never fear. What's the real reason you'd prefer not to go?"

She turned red and slid a skittish sidelong glance in the direction of an amused Christian before shrugging. "I'm just not much good at formal galas, that's all."

Roarke folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. "I seem to recall that you acquitted yourself very nicely at Prince Errico's engagement gala."

"That's because I wasn't with any of the luminaries," Leslie said. "The only person I danced with was you, and since neither of us was really in the spotlight, it wasn't so bad." She finally faced Christian directly. "But you really are royalty, and with the nature of this particular party, any royalty is going to be in the spotlight."

"You'll be beautiful, my Leslie Rose, don't worry about that," Christian assured her.

She sighed. "It's not that. I just don't know how to dance."

At that both Roarke and Christian burst out laughing. "Is that all?" Christian exclaimed, chortling. "What on earth did you do when Mr. Roarke asked you to dance at Errico's ball? You said you danced with him, after all."

"All we did was kind of sway slowly around the floor," Leslie said. "I sat out all the formal dances, and Father went on to dance with some of the other guests."

Roarke eyed her in realization. "And you claimed your feet hurt," he said, shaking his head again. "Oh, Leslie, if only you had said something. I could have taught you to waltz before the gala. And quite a few young men asked me if I could talk you into returning to the dance floor that evening."

"Perhaps it's better that she didn't ask to learn to dance back then after all," Christian mused, drawing more laughter. "Actually, Leslie, learning to waltz isn't so difficult. There are still several hours before this little fantasy ball, so why don't I teach you myself. Mr. Roarke, do you happen to have the appropriate music?"

"Indeed I do," said Roarke with a smile. He went to one of the built-in bookcases, where a stereo system with a CD player rested on a shelf, and looked through the dozen or so discs there before choosing one, turning on the stereo and putting the disc in the player. "The 'Danube Waltz' is the perfect starting point for any beginner."

Several minutes later Christian and Leslie were moving around the floor, and Leslie was amazed to see that her stumbles and missteps were becoming rapidly less frequent. In the midst of the lesson there was a knock on the door. "Excuse me," Roarke said and left the couple still dancing while he went to the foyer and admitted Marcy Beaumont and Gina Clay. "Good afternoon, ladies."

"Hi, Mr. Roarke," Marcy said. "We were going to ask you if we could try on different gowns for the ball…" Her voice trailed off as the movement in the study caught her eye, and she gasped loudly and grabbed her best friend's arm. "Gina! Do you see who that is?"

Gina peered past Roarke and clapped her free hand over her mouth for a second. "Oh my God! Mr. Roarke, isn't that Prince Christian, from Lilla Jordsö? Is he here for our ball?"

"He does plan to attend," Roarke said, smiling, without really answering the question. "Come inside, ladies, and I'll introduce you." He led the way into the study, where Christian and Leslie were just three-stepping back toward the middle of the room. They stopped when Roarke and the women came in. "Prince Christian Carl Tobias Enstad of Lilla Jordsö, may I present Princess Regina of Capria, and Princess Marcianne of Tours-Anjou."

Christian grinned. "Pleased to meet you, Your Highnesses. Very catchy names you've thought up for your realms."

Gina and Marcy looked sheepishly at each other. "So you're in on the fantasy," Gina said with a sigh. "Oh well…at least our fancy fake kingdom names _sound_ good."

Christian's grin graduated into a laugh. "I promise not to tell anyone," he assured them. "It's my understanding you're hosting a ball this evening, and fear not, I'll attend." As the women's eyes popped with delight, he turned to Leslie and added with exaggerated threat, "And so will you. You waltz perfectly well, Leslie Rose, so you have no more excuses not to be there with me."

"Well, if you're willing to risk being able to swim without flippers…" she began, and at his confused look, grinned. "Your toes are liable to be so flat by the end of the evening that you'll look like you've got duck feet."

"I'll take that chance," Christian said and dropped a kiss on her lips. "Very well, and what time does this wonderful royal ball begin?"

"Seven o'clock sharp, Your Highness," Marcy said, beaming.

"Seven it is. My Leslie Rose and I will be there, and I promise to save each of you ladies one dance…but only one. I can't let Leslie get out of practice."

"You're impossible," said Leslie, but she chuckled. "We'll see you then, Your Highnesses. And oh yes…about the dresses. I'll go with you. I need something suitable myself."

In a small, exclusive shop in Amberville, Marcy, Gina and Leslie examined dress after dress, ranging from ethereal clouds of floaty fabric to fussy, jewel-encrusted affairs with trains, sashes, bows, tiaras and other frilly accessories. Leslie was contemplating a pale-turquoise satin gown with a full skirt and long off-the-shoulder sleeves when one of their guests cleared her throat a little too deliberately. "Leslie…uh, is there something going on with Prince Christian?"

Leslie turned to Marcy, one hand on the hook of the hanger that held the dress she was eyeing. "Something such as what?"

Gina smiled, a dreamy look in her eyes. "I think he's in love with you, Leslie, there's no mistaking the way he looked at you. Anyone could see it from a mile away."

"It's true, isn't it?" Marcy persisted breathlessly.

Leslie chose her words carefully. "Well, we've been seeing each other while he's here on the island, anyway. He's really here to set up a website for Fantasy Island."

"Oh, that's right, Gina—he's a website designer and computer expert. I'd forgotten all about that," Marcy exclaimed to her friend before turning back to Leslie. "But I'd say he's got something in mind other than building a website. Imagine how lucky you are, Leslie! He's such a catch—probably the most eligible royal bachelor in the world!"

"There's still Prince Edward of England," Leslie pointed out.

"I heard he's dating someone," Gina said dismissively. "Besides, he isn't half as good-looking as Prince Christian. Believe me, I can tell: he has his eye on you, Leslie, and in my not-very-humble opinion, you'd be nuts if you didn't want him."

"Of course, if you don't, I'll be more than happy to fill in," Marcy added, and all three women laughed.

Leslie finally relented. "Oh, okay…yes, I think he's told me he loves me, and I have to admit, I've fallen in love with him too. But please—don't say anything. You know how the media pounces all over anything that has to do with royalty, and he's not here in an official capacity. He's simply transacting business, and I think he's happy not to have all the usual attention that comes with being regal."

"But it's got to be the most thrilling thing on earth," Gina protested, her eyes aglow. "I mean, he's a _prince! _ Doesn't it make you feel special to have a prince in love with you?"

"He doesn't strike me as being a prince, in the sense that you feel like you have to be formal around him all the time," Leslie mused, turning back to the dress and experimentally rubbing the satin between her thumb and index finger. "With me, he's just Christian. And I really think he likes it that way."

"I can't imagine wanting to be an ordinary old nobody," Marcy said incredulously. "It just isn't any fun."

Leslie looked up again and smiled knowingly. "That's because you and I are 'ordinary old nobodies'," she said. "We've always been that way and we're used to it. Christian's always been a prince and doesn't know from ordinary, and to him being a nobody must look pretty tempting at times. When you're famous, every move you make is on display to the world. You can't eat, sleep or breathe without some journalist begging for an interview or some photographer poking his head out of the bushes with a camera. There's no privacy, and in this day and age, there's really nowhere in the world you can run and hide anymore. So obscurity probably looks good sometimes to Christian, and maybe quite a few other royals." She saw their looks. "I know you two are really enjoying your fantasy, and that's wonderful. But think about what it's like to be on the other side."

Marcy and Gina looked at each other, and Leslie knew they were still doubters. "If you say so," Gina said finally, "but I really can't imagine it. Anyway, Leslie, since Christian's obviously taken by you…will there be any other real-life royals at our ball tonight?"

"Oh, definitely," said Leslie. "Prince Errico of Arcolos has two unmarried younger brothers, and they'll both be at the ball this evening. And I think at least three other European countries have sent representatives from their respective palaces, so there'll be some bona-fide glitterati in attendance."

Marcy and Gina both squealed with delight. "Omigod, that's perfect!" Gina cried. "Come on, Marce, we'd better find dresses quick if we want to look as good as the real royals do! And by the way, I claim dibs on Prince Carlino!"

Leslie snickered to herself and pulled the satin dress off the rack where it hung. Their guests' enthusiasm was amusing but fun to watch, and she hoped their illusions wouldn't be too badly shattered this weekend.

By nine that evening dinner had been served and eaten, and dancing was in progress. Roarke had arrived about an hour before, the epitome of elegance in snow-white tie and tails, accented by a tie and cummerbund that by suspicious coincidence happened to exactly match the color of Leslie's dress. Now he stood on the sidelines, talking occasionally with one or another guest, but as often as not watching the dancing. And, to Leslie's nervous chagrin, Christian had her out on the floor, right in the middle of a crowd of waltzing couples, beaming at her.

"And you thought you would be a disaster," he said. "Leslie Rose, you're beautiful, and you're perfect. Why are you such a pessimist?"

At that moment Leslie's ankle turned in one of the overly-high heels she'd discovered she had to wear with her gown, causing her to misstep and nearly come down squarely on Christian's foot. "You were asking…?" she prompted dryly.

Christian's eyebrows shot up, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "Was that really an accident, or did you do it on purpose?"

Leslie snorted quietly. "Let's just say it's a good thing my mother didn't name me Grace," she quipped, and Christian threw his head back and burst out laughing, attracting the attention of many of the dancers around them, who smiled in response. "Could we please take a break after this one ends? These shoes are murder."

"All right," he relented and smiled at her. "We've been out here for four dances in a row, so I suppose you've earned a rest. I think we need some fresh air, and besides, there's something I want to ask you."

"Oh, okay," she said and glanced at the floor, trying to get her own feet back in step with his. "There, that's more like it…" At which point the music came to an end and the dancers stopped and began to applaud. "That figures. Just when I finally got the rhythm back." But she was relieved, and she knew Christian could see it; he winked at her as they joined in the clapping.

The small orchestra announced a break, and the patter of conversations rose as the guests wandered off the dance floor and resumed their seats or stood in groups to chat. Christian linked his arm with Leslie's and guided them towards a sliding glass door that led to a carefully landscaped terrace, murmuring the occasional "excuse me" or greeting a fellow royal in a couple of cases. He ushered Leslie out ahead of him, pulled the glass door closed and slipped an arm around her waist, strolling to the edge of the terrace where they could see the ocean in the distance. A half-moon hung in the western sky, skimming the treetops at the edge of the lawn.

"This is lovely," Christian mused, scanning the scene. "A perfect setting for the woman I've fallen so in love with." He looked directly at her then, the slightest smile on his features, and brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

She met his gaze and said softly, "I'm…I'm in love with you too, Christian."

His eyes grew wide, his face lit up and he hugged her hard. "Oh, my Leslie Rose, how I dreamed of hearing you say that! If I had a fantasy, then you just granted it." He drew his head back just enough to tilt her face up to meet his, and then kissed her long and deeply. He had a way of weaving a spell over Leslie, who forgot there was anyone else in the entire world and let herself get lost in him for several delicious minutes.

When he pulled back, his eyes looked brighter than a full moon. She could feel the pounding of her own heart from his proximity and, to her own amazed wonder, realized that it wasn't just words. She, Leslie Hamilton, 31-year-old widow, was in love again, and the feeling was more welcome than she had ever expected it to be.

Christian drew in a slow breath and visibly tensed before her, his eyes gleaming with hope and love. "Then, my Leslie Rose, will you grant me my ultimate fantasy and do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

An icy spear seemed to plunge through her from head to toe, and she gaped at him, terror exploding inside her. She could never do that to him! "No…no, I can't!" she cried. Before the shock of her refusal could fully register with Christian, she broke away from him and fled across the lawn, panic making her fleet even in the three-inch heels she wore.

He stumbled after her. "Leslie…Leslie, wait!" he shouted. But she'd gotten too big a head start on him and her fright seemed to have given her wings. Stunned and bewildered, Christian stopped where he was and stared into the darkness where she had vanished, unable to believe what he'd just heard, even more unable to understand. Instinct told him he'd get no answers from her in her emotional state. He'd have to talk to Roarke.


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § -- July 14, 1996

Inside the ballroom, the orchestra was tuning up in preparation to begin a new round of dances, and Roarke was in mid-conversation with members of the exiled Greek royal family when a movement caught his eye and his attention shifted for a moment. Christian burst through the glass door and stopped there, looking wildly around the room; Roarke noted that he was alone and knew instantly that something was wrong. "Excuse me, please," he said, and his companions nodded graciously.

Christian saw him as he approached and grabbed his arm, surprising Roarke somewhat. "Is it possible for us both to make our excuses and depart?" he asked urgently. "I really must speak with you."

"Of course," Roarke agreed immediately, but in spite of himself glanced through the glass door. "Where is Leslie?"

"She's the reason I need to talk," Christian said, wincing.

"Is she all right?" Roarke asked with some urgency of his own.

Christian shuddered. "I think only you can answer that. Oh, she's not hurt," he said hastily, seeing the alarm in Roarke's dark eyes. "Not physically, at least. But I need to know why she ran away from me…"

"One moment, please," Roarke requested. "Why don't we take our leave now, and you can explain it to me along the way."

They both got into the limousine Roarke had taken to the ball, since the one in which Christian had brought Leslie was gone. It took a little less than ten minutes to get from the Enclave, where the ball was being held, back to the main house, and Roarke was silent the entire time, letting Christian explain what had happened. The prince grew increasingly emotional in the process, until by the time he wound up the tale, his demeanor was that of one wounded and abandoned. "She said she 'can't' marry me, Mr. Roarke," Christian finally said, clearly dazed with perplexity. "Why?"

Roarke sighed gently, just as the limo drew to a halt in front of the main house. "Why don't we go inside, and I'll explain," he said. As they got out, Roarke glanced at the dormer of Leslie's bedroom; its window was dark, and indeed all the windows were, except for a faint glow in the shuttered side windows from the lamp he had left burning on his desk. It told him that Leslie had gone somewhere other than the main house for refuge, and this gave birth to a pang of concern; but for the moment he focused on Christian. Leslie knew the island nearly as well as he himself did, and it was likely that she had gone to one of the spots where she sometimes retreated when she needed to be alone.

In the study Roarke turned on the lights on the ceiling fan and gestured at a chair, into which Christian sank without a word. Roarke took the other chair and regarded the younger man with sympathy. "You are deeply in love with my daughter, are you not?"

"I love Leslie as I've never loved another woman in all my life," Christian said instantly and fervently. "I would do anything for her, Mr. Roarke."

Roarke nodded; the intensity of Christian's raw emotion had convinced him. "You see, Christian, Leslie has believed for some time that she is a jinx."

Christian stared at him. "What?"

"Yes. You'll remember that she told you when you first arrived here about the curse on her family that orphaned her and also took the lives of her grandmother and sisters. She was only thirteen when this happened. Also, as you know, she was widowed six years ago; and she felt that her only refuge was here on Fantasy Island." He shifted slightly in the chair and let his gaze drift out the open French shutters. "Then, last year, Tattoo—the artist and my former assistant—passed away, which further eroded her sense of family." He brought himself back to the present with an effort and swiftly, carefully, concealed his own emotion. "You see, Christian, in Leslie's view, she has lost nearly everyone she ever considered family: her grandmother, her mother, her younger sisters, her husband, and Tattoo, who was like an uncle to her."

Christian blinked with understanding. "You're all the family she has remaining to her, then." He thought it over for a moment and then leaned toward Roarke with new intensity. "Mr. Roarke, exactly how did all these people die?"

Roarke explained, "As I mentioned, her grandmother, parents and sisters were killed as the result of a curse that had been placed on her family in the days of colonial America, a curse that was to last thirteen generations and was intended to totally destroy its victim and all her descendants. Leslie—the thirteenth generation—broke the curse once and for all by surviving the fire that was its instigator's final attempt to kill her." He paused and Christian nodded comprehension. "Her husband was killed due to an accidental transgression against an ancient Finnish god; she was with him at the time and saw it all take place. For some time thereafter she was emotionally fragile, and I believe the best thing she could have done was to come back here."

"Yes, I think so too," said Christian. "And what of Tattoo?"

"He passed on due to insurmountable physical problems," Roarke said, his voice roughening slightly with remembered sadness. "She still grieves over his loss; they were close, and he was a wonderful friend to me as well." He cleared his throat and again buried his emotions. "So it appears that she is frightened of seeing harm come to you, should she agree to marry you, and wishes to avoid it."

Christian frowned. "She believes she's a jinx, you said." Roarke nodded, and the frown became a fierce scowl. "Then she is laboring under a tragic misconception! Leslie was not the cause of any of those deaths. How can she think she is a jinx when none of it was her fault?"

Roarke smiled with approval. "You see the very thing that Leslie herself does not." He rose from the chair and took a few slow steps in the direction of the shutters. "She was so heavily affected by the deaths of all her loved ones that she can't see the situation clearly. But I believe it's a measure of her feelings for you that she turned you down for fear of seeing the same fate befall you—strange though it may sound."

Christian quirked a corner of his mouth in response. "I see what you mean, but there's a problem with that: I can't live without her. It's as simple as that." He, too, got to his feet. "Where would I find her, Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke turned to him and smiled sympathetically again. "Believe me, Christian, I do understand how badly you want to talk to her. But perhaps it's wiser to leave things as they stand, just for now. She will be too distraught to listen to reason at the moment, and she'll need time to clear her head. Give her a little space and let her think things over, and then try again. If her feelings for you are as deep as I think they are, she will be conflicted over her refusal of you, and may try to look for a way around it."

Doubtfully Christian considered Roarke's words, then sighed and gave in. "Very well, Mr. Roarke. But I won't let it rest at this forever."

Roarke chuckled. "I don't expect you to," he said, catching Christian's surprised attention. "I have thought lately that it's long past time Leslie learned to love again, to open her heart, let down her guard and give herself the chance to be happy." He clapped a hand onto Christian's shoulder. "Try to sleep if you can, and perhaps things will look a little different in the morning. They often do."

‡ ‡ ‡

When Leslie finally reached home—on foot, since she had sent the limo driver on his way after having him drop her off at her favorite tiny lagoon near the fishing village—it was after 1 A.M., and her bare feet were almost as sore as they would have been had she been wearing her heels. She'd kicked the shoes off inside the car and forgotten to take them with her when she got out at the lagoon. Feeling very much like Cinderella, she let herself in and locked the door behind her. She wasn't surprised to find the entire house dark, but she had to admit to relief. At the moment she couldn't face anyone.

She padded quietly up to her room and slowly removed the ball gown, draping it over the back of the rocking chair before slipping into her favorite sleepwear and into bed. But her mind was racing. Roarke had been right: though she was convinced she would bring harm upon Christian if she became his wife, she was enough in love with him that she truly regretted turning him down. The two sides battled each other in her head for long enough that she finally gave up on ever getting any sleep and got back out of bed, wandering downstairs and out onto the veranda. She paused a few feet from the steps and leaned on the railing that looked out over the side lawn, spotting fireflies winking on and off in the dark every few seconds, listening to the night noises. Slowly, despite herself, she began to relax in the soothing, quiet night.

Then she thought she heard a faint, regular crunching noise, as of footsteps on dirt, and turned to see a human figure slowly rounding the fountain. The moon had long since set, and the stars didn't provide enough illumination for her to make out who it was. She took a step or two back towards the door, ready to flee inside the house if need be.

"Leslie? Is that you?" a male voice called softly.

She stood up straight with surprise. "Christian?"

He hurried across the lane and scaled the four steps onto the porch in two eager jumps, then stopped a few feet away from her, one hand on the support post as if to brace himself. He was dressed only in white running shorts and a pair of ratty-looking sneakers, and seemed unsure of himself. "Hello, Leslie."

Absurdly, she missed his nickname for her. _Nobody to blame but myself,_ she thought with an inward sigh. "What're you doing here at this hour?"

"I couldn't sleep. Why are you out here on the porch?" he countered.

"Same reason…but at least I'm still here at home," she said, hesitantly teasing. "How'd you wind up all the way over here?"

Christian grinned, flooding her with relief. "Well, perhaps my wandering wasn't as aimless as I hoped it would look," he confessed, and she giggled softly. "Oh, Leslie Rose, I was so shocked and worried about you. Why in the world did you run from me?"

She bit her lip and hung her head, sighing long and deep. "I was afraid…" After a moment she made up her mind that he deserved to know the truth. "Christian, if I marry you, something might happen to you. Everyone related to me in any way at all, even by adoption, has died, except Father. I don't want that to happen to you."

"What makes you think it would?" he asked.

"I'm a jinx," she said.

"That's ridiculous," Christian informed her firmly, coming to her and taking her hands in his. "Leslie, you aren't thinking rationally about this. Don't you realize that none of those deaths was your fault? You didn't cause any of those people to die. Your family died because of a curse, not because they were related to you. Your husband died because of some strange vendetta, not because he was married to you. Tattoo died because of health problems, not because he was your adopted uncle." He took in her astonished expression. "Am I making sense to you? Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

"How did you…" she began, overwhelmed.

"I spoke with Mr. Roarke," said Christian. "He enlightened me quite a bit. Leslie, these things didn't happen because of some imaginary jinx. The causes in every case were circumstances that were beyond your control. You can't possibly tell me that if you didn't exist, they would all still be alive. The curse predated you by a dozen generations; your husband's trouble with that bit of Finnish mythology began before he met you; and Tattoo's ailments were with him from birth, long before you were ever born, never mind before he thought of you as his niece. Do you understand?"

She gaped at him, astounded and speechless. She couldn't even find the words to admit to him that she had never looked at the situation that way. He smiled, watching his argument sink in, and slowly stroked her hair, waiting patiently for her to absorb it all.

Finally Leslie dared let herself think he might have a point. "It never occurred to me to see it like that," she said faintly. "Even Father never suggested any such thing to me."

"Maybe he hoped you would come to realize it for yourself," Christian said. "But you so stunned me by turning down my proposal, I thought I needed to point it out to you."

She shivered and half turned away from him. "But there were so many. _Mormor_, Mom, Kristy and Kelly, Teppo, Tattoo…even that poor misguided fool who gave me his surname. That's seven people close to me who've died. Doesn't that strike you as suspicious?"

"No," Christian said. "Unlucky, perhaps, but hardly suspicious."

Unconvinced, Leslie let her head drop back and sighed. "I still don't want to risk anything happening to you."

Christian, searching for another means of persuasion, hit on a possibility and seized it. "Leslie, if you're afraid I'll take you away from here…you have my word you'll never have to leave Fantasy Island."

That brought her back around to stare at him. "But if we were married, how could we be together if I _didn't_ leave? You have to be on Lilla Jordsö—you're one of its royal family!"

"That doesn't necessarily mean anything," Christian told her, again taking her hands in his. "Listen to me. My oldest brother, King Arnulf, has three daughters to succeed him. If somehow they all met with early demises, then there's my second brother, Carl Johan, who has two sons. And if _they_ were suddenly out of the picture, my sister Anna-Laura would take over as queen; and she has a daughter and a son of her own." He grinned when he saw he'd flabbergasted her again. "The point to all this is that there's no danger of my ever having to assume the throne of Lilla Jordsö, barring some localized natural disaster or an ambitious assassination plot. And I seriously doubt the imminence of either event. I'm tenth in line for the throne, and with so many before me, I daresay they can easily do without me. There's no shortage of successors to the monarchy. So that would free me to leave Lilla Jordsö and take up residence here on Fantasy Island, so that you could stay here and continue to be Mr. Roarke's assistant."

"But you're a prince, and that obligates you to do a lot of—" Leslie began.

Christian rolled his eyes. _"Herregud,_ Leslie Hamilton, you can find a thousand excuses to refuse me. To tell you the truth, I hate it. My nieces and nephews can easily take on all those princely duties you think I'm supposed to be shouldering. In any case, the monarchic rules of Lilla Jordsö state that any prince or princess who leaves the island to live with a spouse must forfeit his or her royal status. And I'm more than willing to do that."

"You'd give up your royal title just for me? And you'd move here to Fantasy Island, lock, stock and barrel?" Leslie asked incredulously.

"I certainly would," Christian replied without hesitation. "I love you that much." She blinked up at him, feeling herself wavering. He'd managed to shoot down all her protestations, yet she was still leery, and he read it in her eyes. "Leslie, my darling, what does it take to get you to see the light?" He thought furiously for a minute, then brightened. "Ah, here's something. The deaths of your loved ones all happened elsewhere, didn't they? Your family in the United States, your husband in Finland, Tattoo in France. If I came here to the island, that might afford me some measure of protection."

Leslie frowned slightly, looking dubious for a few seconds; then, as she turned over the concept in her head, she began to think there was something to it. Could it really be possible? Hope sneaked in despite her better judgment, and she stole a peek at him from under her bangs. "Maybe you have something there," she murmured slowly. His own hope-filled smile caught her eye and she rested a finger over his lips. "Let me think about it, okay? I need to sleep on it."

"Don't keep me waiting too long, Leslie Rose," he requested quietly, "please."

"I'll see what I can do," she said and grinned, then softened. "If it's any consolation, it killed me to say no. I love you, Christian—you worked a miracle on me, making me feel love when I thought it would never happen again." She lifted herself on tiptoe and gave him a lingering kiss that left him short of breath. "I'll see you in the morning, I promise."

He moaned, obviously frustrated, and she grinned again. "I know, I feel the same way. It's tempting to stay with you, but I need to think about this. Please be patient with me. I know I'm a pain in the neck, and I really appreciate it."

"Hah," he grumbled with exaggerated annoyance, and she laughed softly. "All right, but you'll see me back here immediately after breakfast." He kissed her and then shuffled off the porch, wandering away into the night. Leslie, her brain already working overtime, let herself back into the house and headed for her room, noting that the clock showed nearly three now, wondering if she was ever going to get any sleep at all tonight. Could Christian be right? Would his residence on the island be enough to keep him safe? _Father, you always seem to have all the answers. Please, oh please, let this one be what I hope it'll be…_ She ultimately tossed and turned for over an hour before at last drifting into a restless doze.


	8. Chapter 8

§ § § -- July 15, 1996

Leslie predictably overslept on Sunday morning and had to scramble into her clothes and rush down to the veranda for breakfast. Roarke looked up at her approach and regarded her with an ironic smile. "I'm so pleased you could join me, Leslie."

She grinned sheepishly and took her usual chair. "I'm sorry, Father. Did I inconvenience you or Mariki?"

Relenting, Roarke chuckled. "No, although she did express some concern over you. I have no doubt you had rather a rough night, between your long walk home and all the issues you've lately been wrestling with."

Leslie shook her head with amused resignation. "I suppose that means you know Christian was here last night, trying to talk me out of thinking I'm a jinx."

"I didn't until you told me just this moment, but I can't say I'm surprised," Roarke commented. "He must surely have given you a great deal of food for thought."

"At least a Thanksgiving dinner's worth," Leslie bantered, evoking another chuckle from him. "You're right…I had to walk back here all the way from my lagoon near the fishing village, because I was so upset I didn't think and let the limo driver go home after he took me there. Of course, no one was out at that hour except maybe police officers; but needless to say, none of them happened to be patrolling that particular stretch of the Ring Road, or I'd have hitched a ride and been home a lot sooner." Roarke laughed outright this time. "And then after Christian spent a good forty minutes trying to argue me out of my fears, I was awake till close to four in the morning, processing everything he said. But one thing kept coming back to me, over and over again."

Roarke looked up from his plate when she let a silence elapse. "What would that be?"

She hesitated, staring back at him with a childlike hope in her eyes. "Christian suggested that maybe if he were to stay here on Fantasy Island with me, it would prevent anything bad happening to him. He said that my family and Tattoo and Teppo all died in other places, so if he came here it might make a difference. Could it really be true? Would living here on Fantasy Island protect him? It's always been a refuge for me, the home I knew I could come back to, and I've never known anything but happiness here."

Roarke studied her for a long surprised moment before a regretful expression stole over his handsome features. "Ah, Leslie, my child, if I could give you such a guarantee, I would do so in a heartbeat. Even on Fantasy Island, the life cycle turns, just as it does everywhere else on earth. I can't promise you that nothing would happen to him should he come here permanently." He saw her dismay and reached across the table to pat her hand. "I think you knew that already, sweetheart, but you were willing to clutch at straws in order to convince yourself that you could risk saying yes to Christian."

"It was a nice idea," she murmured wistfully.

"Indeed," Roarke concurred, "and in its way, it's flattering!" He sat back and smiled a little. "If we were to assume Christian's last-ditch idea had real merit, and posit the concept that he could be safe from harm here, the fact remains even then that you could never know unless you took the risk." He gazed solemnly at her. "The real point, Leslie, is that you must follow your heart. You will never know whether you could have had a long and happy life with Christian unless you take the chance and accept his proposal. Love often means you must take a risk, and if you are enough in love, you will do so gladly for the sake of your happiness and his."

"Hmmmmm…" Leslie murmured, eyes unseeing, pondering.

Once more Roarke leaned forward, the movement catching her attention and making her focus on him. "Tell me, child, wouldn't you regret it if you turned Christian down and let him walk out of your life forever, because of the fear of what _might_ happen?" He tilted his head a bit to one side and smiled ever so slightly, a wealth of emotion glittering from his dark eyes. His next words were deliberate. "I have no regrets about marrying Helena Marsh all those years ago. Yes, I knew she was dying of a brain tumor, but I risked my heart and married her nonetheless. I'll never regret it, because we had such happiness in the few days we were husband and wife. I have always treasured those memories."

Leslie stared at him, amazed at this admission, knowing on some level what it must have cost him to bring back those few precious memories. Yet, when he smiled fully at her, it was with joy and nothing else; and in that moment she knew what she must do.

"Thank you, Father," she said and reached over to squeeze his hand. "You've been more help than you can imagine."

After that she could barely eat for her excitement; but as it turned out, she didn't have to wait too long, since Christian kept his word and appeared at the same time Mariki came out to clear away the breakfast dishes. "Ah, good morning, Christian," Roarke greeted him, as if it were only another ordinary day.

"Good morning, Mr. Roarke…and good morning to you as well, Leslie Rose," Christian said, pausing near the table and eyeing Leslie with meaning. "You know why I'm here, don't you? Unless somehow you developed amnesia overnight."

Leslie winked surreptitiously at Roarke and then turned a blank look on him. "Uh, do I know you? What's your name again?"

"Don't you dare!" Christian exploded, and Leslie burst out laughing. Roarke looked on with a broad grin, enjoying their teasing. "You'll have to forgive me for stealing your daughter, Mr. Roarke, but she owes me an answer and I won't let her off the hook until she gives it to me. And it had better be the right answer."

Leslie, still with a wicked glint in her eye, tilted her head aslant and inquired sweetly, "Would you mind repeating the question?"

This time Roarke was the one who laughed. "Leslie, may I humbly suggest that you stop trying the poor man's patience, before I find myself forced to have him arrested for your murder. As you might say, 'give him a break'."

"Thank you, Mr. Roarke," Christian said and pulled Leslie out of her chair, towing her across the porch with a hasty excuse thrown over his shoulder at Roarke. Once they were on the other end of the veranda, he turned her to face him and held her securely by the arms. "This is your last chance, Leslie, before I do something both Mr. Roarke and I—not to mention you—may regret."

"Maybe if you settle down and give me a chance to find the words I need, you might get that answer you claim to want so badly," Leslie joshed him before clearing her throat and growing serious. "Do you know how long I tossed and turned last night after you left here? I never thought I'd make up my mind. It took a chat with Father over breakfast to make me finally see the lay of the land. And now I know exactly what to do."

"And that would be…?" Christian prodded impatiently.

"Yes," she said simply and smiled. "I admit to being a tad nervous, but I'm willing to take the risk. Yes, Christian, I'll marry you."

Christian's triumphant roar of jubilation carried all the way across the duck pond; passing natives and guests alike stopped to stare in amazement as he hoisted Leslie off the floor and whirled her around once or twice. By the time he set her back down, they were both laughing, hugging each other hard. He noticed the gawkers over her shoulder and yelled gleefully, "Spread the word! Leslie's going to marry me!"

A collective gasp went up from the assorted natives, most of whom were in Roarke's employ and all of whom knew Leslie; and they rushed the porch, full of excited questions. Some of the guests joined in, and Roarke strolled slowly across the veranda, still wearing that broad smile, gazing on with a sense of pride he'd never have openly admitted to.

‡ ‡ ‡

Before sundown, everyone on their end of the island knew that Leslie was engaged to Lilla Jordsö's Prince Christian; and by the time she and Roarke had seen their weekend guests off the following morning, the _Fantasy Island Chronicle_ had clued in the rest of the population by splashing the announcement across its front page in inch-high headlines. As soon as Leslie and Roarke came back from the plane dock, she paused in front of the grandfather clock and began to count seconds aloud. "One, two, three, four, five…"

"It's about time you got back," cried a female voice, and Leslie grinned at a laughing Roarke before turning to beam at her friends, who'd all crowded into the study through the French shutters. Myeko, the owner of the voice, bounded forward and pretended to shake Leslie. "What's wrong with you anyway, Hamilton? Don't you know I'm supposed to get the big scoop for my column?"

"Hey, that was just the headline," Leslie bantered, laughing. "You get the exclusive, in-depth interview." She took in the other girls, who all looked delighted, if a little stunned. "Well, go on and ask those questions I know you're dying to ask."

"How on earth did you meet this guy?" Maureen wanted to know.

Lauren gave her a smug look. "I got 'em together," she bragged with an exaggerated smirk. "She and Mr. Roarke needed somebody to put together their new website, and Brian and I had hired Christian, so I gave her his name."

"Don't be so modest, Lauren," Leslie said, and they all burst out laughing. "Next? Are you writing all this down, Myeko?" Roarke, right on cue, handed Myeko a pad of paper and a pen, bringing on more laughter.

"So is he really a prince?" Camille demanded.

"He sure is," Leslie said. "Remember when we were all at your house watching the coronation of King Arnulf II, live from Lilla Jordsö? Christian's his youngest brother. We all saw him at the ceremony, right up there in the innermost circle."

Tabitha lit up. "Was he the handsome man with the shiny brown hair? He must have been, because the man and woman on either side of him had teenaged children in front of them both."

"You got it," Leslie confirmed. "Great memory."

"So when's the wedding?" Lauren asked. "Since I more or less introduced you, I think it's only fair I get to be the matron of honor." More laughter mingled with good-natured scoffing as the girls playfully shoved her.

Roarke intervened then. "Ladies, I appreciate that you want to hear the full story, but perhaps you'll be more comfortable gathering in a place where you can sit down. If you can maintain your collective patience for another ten or fifteen minutes, that will give Leslie a chance to change her clothing, and she will be free for the remainder of the day."

Leslie stared at him in astonishment. "What about the usual Monday cleanup?"

Roarke shook his head, smiling. "Leave that to me and the staff, child. It's not every day that my only daughter gets engaged. Hurry, now."

In her absence, Leslie's friends peppered him with questions, which he deflected with humor till she returned in more casual clothing. Once they'd all departed the house, he picked up the phone and began making a series of calls which, some nine hours later, culminated in a special luau being held in honor of Christian and Leslie's engagement. During the course of the party, Myeko cornered the couple and insisted on getting both points of view for what she called "my major scoop", and even took the accompanying photo of them herself. For the next four hours, well-wishers came by and congratulated the pair, and there was abundant food, champagne and dancing.

Sometime past ten, Christian and Leslie took the opportunity provided by a hula dance and found a quiet corner where they could sit relatively undisturbed. Roarke, who had been making the rounds with his employees telling them they could begin breaking the party down, spied them watching the hula with distinctly glassy-eyed expressions and paused nearby. "Wouldn't you two prefer to sleep in a more comfortable place than here in the clearing?" he asked humorously.

They came to life with identical starts and grinned up at him. "I must admit, we're quite worn out," Christian said. "Do you suppose there would be a great hue and cry if we slipped away before the guests left?"

"If so, I'll make your excuses," Roarke promised. "Why don't you leave now, while everyone's attention is diverted." He chuckled at the speed with which they took him up on the offer and returned to his duty.

A safe distance down the path, Christian stopped and pulled Leslie in for a hug. "I may as well tell you now, Leslie Rose," he said wearily. "It will be necessary for me to fly back to Lilla Jordsö to notify my family of my plans and begin proceedings to give up my royal title, so I'll be leaving on the first charter tomorrow morning. I want to get things started quickly, so that I can marry you all the sooner."

"You don't sound especially excited about it," Leslie noted quizzically.

Christian sighed. "Not about returning, no. It's a given that they won't be happy about it, especially Arnulf. My brother is the embodiment of rigid tradition, enamored of pomp and circumstance and pageantry. What I'm about to do isn't unprecedented, but it's definitely rare. I'm only the third royal in Lilla Jordsö's entire history to forfeit the status."

"Oh," murmured Leslie with new understanding, thoughtfully drawing out the word. "So you think you're likely to encounter resistance?"

"I would say it's all but guaranteed. However, I've made up my mind, and even my stern, unyielding brother can't refuse me, king or not." Christian kissed her as if to store up for the days they would be apart, leaving her wanting far more. "If I thought I could get away with it, I'd take you back to my bungalow and no one would see you until dawn…but I have a feeling your father would take strong exception. Just meet me at the plane dock in the morning, that's all I ask."

"I'll be there," Leslie promised and gladly surrendered to another kiss. Breathless in its aftermath, she gazed longingly up at him and admitted, "If you did take me back to your bungalow tonight, I wouldn't resist."

"Don't tempt me," he growled, kissing her once more. "Come on, we'd better get some sleep while we still have enough sense left about us to stop ourselves."


	9. Chapter 9

§ § § -- July 17, 1996: Lilla Jordsö

"_Ers Majestät—Kungliga Slottet."_ The words in Swedish roused Christian from a sound sleep and he sat up with a start. Sure enough, the royal palace, located about ten kilometers west of the capital city of Sundborg, loomed outside the windows of the official car that had been waiting for him at the airport. It wasn't Christian's home, hadn't been since he became a widower at the tender age of twenty-two; and for that he was thankful, because the place never failed to intimidate him. It had been a great relief to move out and rent a flat in the capital; there, at least, he had some semblance of privacy.

Christian got out of the car and stretched at leisure before mentally bracing himself and striding for the great entry hall with grim, determined steps. It was his intention to spend the absolute minimum time possible here, to state his plans and begin the proceedings to relinquish his right to the title of prince. His footsteps echoed in the vast entry with its stone walls and ceilings that stretched up three stories and ahead of him some hundred meters. It was the kind of place meant for formal receptions of other royal personages, heads of state, presidents, prime ministers and ambassadors. Often during his childhood, Christian had seen many of these dignitaries cooling their well-shod heels in here while awaiting the leisure of King Arnulf I, his father. Undoubtedly Arnulf II continued the practice, Christian reflected, making his passage through the hall as swift as possible.

He smiled faintly with the memory of his goodbyes to Leslie at the plane dock; they had been quite alone, so had spent a good chunk of their time just kissing each other. When the final boarding call had come, he had sighed and hugged her hard. "I'll come back as quickly as I possibly can," he had promised her. "The wait will be as hard on me as on you, Leslie Rose, so you can take some comfort in that."

"Just get going—the sooner you get it over with, the sooner you'll come back," she had told him. "Be safe, my love, please." Her somewhat shy endearment still warmed him every time he replayed her last words to him in his mind.

A soft, inquisitive sound brought him back to the present and he looked around to discover that cats had begun materializing out of the woodwork (_or the stonework,_ he thought whimsically). His grin became real: where there were cats, there was Anna-Kristina. She was known throughout the country as _Kattersprinsessan_—the Princess of Cats—and Christian was convinced that's how history would remember her. His twenty-four-year-old niece bounded out of one of the massive hallways that branched off the main hall, two on either side, and squealed in delight at sight of him. "Uncle Christian! When did you get back home?" she cried, throwing herself at him and hugging him.

"Just now," Christian said, returning her hug. "I've come back for a very special reason, Anna-Kristina. I'm going to be married—her name is Leslie, and she is the daughter of Mr. Roarke of Fantasy Island."

Anna-Kristina squealed again. "How wonderful! I can't wait to meet her!"

"Oh, I don't know when that will happen," Christian bantered, spirits buoyed by her ecstatic reception of his news. "You see, I'm here only to start proceedings to give up my right to be called a prince. I'll be living there with her."

"Then I'll go back with you and attend the wedding," Anna-Kristina declared firmly. She tucked her hand into his and strolled along by his side. "You look so happy, it can't be anything but a love match. How wonderfully romantic! It'll be the royal romance of the decade. Mamma and Pappa are just finishing breakfast. Come on, I'll go in with you."

Uncle and niece made their way to the last doorway on the right of the main hall and entered a large room dominated by a table that could seat thirty people and an enormous chandelier on either end of the ceiling. The only occupants were Anna-Kristina's parents, King Arnulf II and Queen Kristina. Arnulf looked around and smiled in surprised welcome at his youngest sibling. "Christian! You're back quickly after all!"

Christian stopped behind a chair and nodded his head in deference to his brother's royal office. "I have news," he began.

Anna-Kristina, bubbling over, broke in. "Pappa, Uncle Christian's finally found the woman he loves! He's going to marry her and live on Fantasy Island!"

The queen coughed, turned bright red and hastily excused herself, all but running out of the room as if in a hurry to escape. Arnulf's smile died and his expression frosted over. "What is this the girl is saying?"

"It's true," Christian said. It had been too much to hope that his brother would be even remotely happy to hear his plans, and he steeled himself. "I've come back only to tell you the news and to process the paperwork involved in giving up my title. Then I'll return to Fantasy Island for my wedding."

"You'll do no such thing," Arnulf informed him icily. "You're already married."

Behind him, Anna-Kristina gasped; Christian thought the world had quit revolving. "What?" he demanded, his voice now as glacial as his brother's. "What do you mean, I'm…?" His mind flashed back to the one angry phone conversation he'd had with Arnulf back on Fantasy Island, and he suddenly understood. "You didn't void that contract!"

"Of course not," snapped Arnulf, rising to meet his brother at eye level. "You've always chafed under control, Christian, but I must admit you do know what's expected of you—at least, till now. When you walked in here, I believed you had come to see reason and had returned home to settle down with your new wife."

Christian sneered, "Did you truly believe I was going to docilely accept your word as law, Arnulf? This is my _life_ you're playing with! When I told you to break that marriage contract, I meant every word of it! _What have you done to me?"_

"I've done what you stubbornly refused to do," Arnulf said flatly and implacably. "You have a duty as a prince of Lilla Jordsö, Christian, and it's time you did that duty. I married you by proxy to Marina when she and her father arrived here two days ago. If you try to marry Roarke's daughter now, you'll be a bigamist." Christian gaped speechlessly; seeing this, Arnulf pressed his advantage. "Furthermore, _lill'bror,_ now that you're here, you will not be allowed to leave the country again until your marriage has been consummated."

Christian stared, statuelike, head reeling; it was too much for him to take in. Arnulf nodded sharply once and said to Anna-Kristina, "Bring Marina here."

The king's horrified daughter rushed out of the room. Unbeknownst to either her father or her uncle, she was determined to do whatever little was in her power to do. She was squarely on Christian's side, but she had met Marina and liked the young Italian woman very much. _Marina will understand when I tell her,_ Anna-Kristina thought. _She has to. I do know one thing. The moment I become queen, I'm going to revoke any existing marriage contracts that might be out on me, my sisters or my cousins, and then I'm going to abolish the law that allows such things once and for all! _ So resolved, she raced down a hallway and rocketed up a flight of stairs, already working out what to tell Marina.

§ § § -- July 18, 1996 – Fantasy Island

It was a quiet Thursday evening, enough that Roarke and Leslie had discovered that they had an extraordinarily rare block of free time after having dinner on the veranda. They decided to watch a little television, something they did so seldom that it felt like a special occasion just to sit in their upstairs rec room with tumblers and a pitcher of a spiced tropical fruit punch that Mariki had mixed up. They'd watched the news and had settled back to get a little guilty pleasure out of an entertainment-news program that was just shy of being a TV tabloid.

While the co-anchors nattered on about the latest doings of the hottest movie and rock stars, Mariki appeared in the doorway. "Mr. Roarke, Miss Leslie? I'm going to head for home now," she said. "Everything's finished in the kitchen."

"Very well, thank you, Mariki," said Roarke.

"Good night," Leslie added, and Mariki smiled benignly at her before nodding at Roarke and taking her leave. They turned back to the set, just in time to hear the female anchor making a breathless announcement.

"…_And now, a very special press conference, live from Lilla Jordsö. Here's Brenda-Lyn Duffy with an exclusive report. Brenda-Lyn?"_

The scene on the set cut to an excited young reporter standing in front of what appeared to be a stone castle straight out of the Middle Ages. _"That's right, Candace. We are about to hear an announcement from none other than King Arnulf the Second himself…and wait, there he is now!"_ The camera swung around to follow a small procession marching out of the palace grounds behind the reporter; in the front, clearly holding pride of place, was the king, who stepped smartly onto a raised dais and adjusted the microphone on a podium in front of him. He spoke English slowly and precisely, with a pronounced _jordisk-svenska_ accent.

"_Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I am pleased that you are here to witness this great event. Without further ado, I should like to present our newest royal couple: my brother, Prince Christian, and his brand-new wife, Marina."_ He stepped aside from the mike, and there indeed was none other than Christian, standing at the side of a waiflike young woman with jet-black hair and skin the color of milk. Arnulf beamed like the sun and began to applaud the couple.

Astonished, Roarke looked at Leslie and winced at what he saw, even though he had expected it. She sat stock-still, gaping at the screen, her lower jaw gradually falling even as he watched, her eyes huge with disbelief and fast-growing betrayal. From the television set, applause swelled up and an unseen band began to play some sprightly tune of celebration, while the camera zoomed in for a closeup of Christian and Marina. Roarke took the opportunity to study the picture closely; Marina seemed serene, wearing a Mona Lisa smile, while Christian stared resolutely straight ahead, his unsmiling expression one of detachment and rigid control. The camera then pulled back enough to include King Arnulf in the picture; he must have been cued by someone offscreen, because he turned to face his unseen audience and, still clapping, spoke over the music. _"I thank you for your warm reception, as do my brother and new sister-in-law. I am sure everyone watching us today, wherever they may be, will join me in wishing them much happiness and many children."_

Roarke frowned, concentrating on Arnulf. Was that triumph he saw glinting in the king's eyes? It was clear to him from their respective expressions that Christian was grimly enduring the ordeal; Marina was quietly accepting; and Arnulf was just a little too proud of himself. _What had happened? _ From beside him he heard a whimper of bewilderment from Leslie, and shifted his attention to her, tucking her hand between both of his. He was startled at how cold it was.

"Leslie, don't hold your emotions in," Roarke warned her gently, his tone filled with compassion. "Remember, it's not good for you."

But she was still so stunned that all she could do was turn to gawk at him with an aura of utter abandonment about her. "He was coming back," she said helplessly, in a voice like a child's. "We were going to get married…and he lied to me!" She began to sag, wilting like the tiny roses Christian had so lately compared her with, and stared blankly at the floor without seeing anything. Roarke gathered her into his embrace and rocked her a bit, feeling her shivering, wondering a little bleakly whether she would recover this time. She had taken the chance and risked her heart—following his own counsel, among others—and had lost the gamble.

His gaze strayed to the television screen where Arnulf and Marina were graciously accepting congratulations, and he saw Christian standing on the edge of the dais, ignoring everyone and everything around him, staring grimly at something only he saw. Leslie wasn't capable of seeing it through her pain and sense of betrayal, but a strong instinct told him that Christian had not gone into this situation willingly. Sooner or later, Roarke knew, he would find a way to explain how everything had gone so spectacularly wrong.

‡ ‡ ‡

The _Fantasy Island Chronicle_ put an unfortunate tabloid-style slant on the story of how one of their own had been "done wrong" by a scheming royal. Roarke, seeing the paper the morning after the press conference, tossed it into the wastebasket in disgust. "_Scheming royal", indeed!_ he thought, annoyed. _The irony is that they are actually correct; they have simply applied the label to the wrong man!_

For the next two weeks Leslie had to endure the gazes of pity and sympathy from her father's numerous staff as she carried out the duties of her job. Even her friends, well-meaning in their indignant support of Leslie, finally began to get on her nerves with their repeated declarations of what a jerk and a creep Prince Christian had turned out to be and how much they despised the two-timing so-and-so for what he'd done to her. She began to avoid meeting them for lunch and took to making her rounds with her head down, evading eye contact everywhere she possibly could. She spoke only as much as necessary and rapidly became a mere shadow of her usual friendly self, inciting alarm in Roarke and making Mariki mutter darkly about assorted means of revenge on Christian.

Then, on the afternoon of August 5, Leslie came in from the veranda, looking hunted. "Father, is it all right if I take the rest of the day off?" she asked. "I can't stand this anymore—I need to get away. I thought I'd take the next charter to Honolulu and do some shopping. At least there nobody knows me or what happened with Christian."

Roarke nodded with complete understanding. It was a Monday, the day with the lightest workload. "By all means, child, go ahead. Stay as long as you wish. I ask only that you phone me if you decide to remain there overnight."

"Oh, I don't think I'll do that," Leslie said, "tempting as it is…but if I change my mind, I'll get word to you right away." She picked up her purse from the computer desk where she generally kept it during the day. "I'll see you later on."

"Try to enjoy yourself, sweetheart," Roarke said. "Are you certain you wouldn't prefer to have one or two of your friends accompany you?"

Leslie stopped short, just in front of the steps up to the foyer, and shook her head so vigorously that her hair flew out around her face. "Absolutely not. I know they mean well, but all they seem to be able to do is talk about how big a fraud they think Christian is and how they'd love to tell him off on my behalf. I just want to get past all this and talk about something else, but they're too busy playing avenging angels."

Roarke chuckled. "You might take it as a sign of their loyalty toward you and of the closeness of the friendships you forged with them all those years ago. But yes, I agree, it can be quite tiresome to hear the same subject belabored over and over again. All right, then, go ahead. Don't forget the pass so that you can return." As he spoke, he reached into the drawer where he kept them and handed her one; she gave a wan smile of thanks and left. He settled into the chair and opened a ledger to balance some accounts.

About twenty minutes later, the phone rang and he paused in his figuring to pick it up. "Yes, may I help you?"

"Mr. Roarke? This is Prince Christian," came the response, surprising him only a little. He had been half expecting something like this. "May I speak with Leslie?"

"She's not here, Christian, I am terribly sorry," Roarke replied neutrally.

He heard a gusty sigh on the other end. "I suspect she would have refused to talk to me in any case. Well, that's as well. I called to ask a great favor of you." Roarke listened in silence as Christian made his request; at one point his dark eyes went wide with surprise before narrowing thoughtfully. _Perhaps it's the best way,_ he ruminated while Christian fell silent, waiting for the reply. _If the situation stands as I believe it does, this may be the _only_ way. _ He drew in a breath and quietly gave assent.

"Mind you," he added, "you are going to find your objective difficult in the extreme, but I will not hinder you in any way. Does your brother, the king, know about this?"

"There's not a word he can say," Christian said in a hard voice. "He got what he wanted from me. Now it's time for him to give some ground."

"Very well," Roarke said. "I suggest we set the date for the twenty-fifth of August, and that you inform the king accordingly. My staff and I will handle the rest."

"My deepest and most heartfelt thanks, Mr. Roarke. This means more to me than you can know," Christian said fervently. Then his voice changed. "I must go…again, thank you so very much." A click sounded in Roarke's ear.

Slowly he hung up, wondering. Christian had sounded hurried just before signing off. Was he making his plans in secret? Roarke sighed softly and put his attention back to his accounting, mentally bracing himself for the uproar when Leslie found out about it.


	10. Chapter 10

§ § § -- August 25, 1996

"I'm not going, Father," Leslie said stubbornly, for at least the fiftieth time since he had first broken the news to her.

Roarke's patience with her was at such a low ebb by now that it was all he could do to keep his voice even and his tone reasonable. "Leslie, I've listened to your refusals for the past three weeks, and I have reached my limit. Let me assure you that you are indeed going to the reception. Prince Christian specifically requested that it be held here on Fantasy Island; you and I are the hosts, and as such, we are required to make an appearance. No matter how you may feel about it, you must and will be there." She opened her mouth to protest, and he lifted a hand, his expression one of stern warning. "Enough, Leslie Susan, do you understand me? This discussion is over."

She stared at him, astounded; he could tell by the look in her eyes that she thought of him as something of a traitor. He sighed gently and softened his stance slightly. "I realize that it will be painful for you, but some things just cannot be avoided. You will simply have to assume your best poker face and endure it. You have the afternoon off so that you may choose suitable evening wear, and a hairstylist and makeup artist will be at your disposal as well. Give in gracefully, Leslie, as a mature adult would do."

Leslie made a face. "If you're telling me to grow up, Father, then believe me…I get the message, loud and clear." She blew out her breath and arose from the lunch table, pushing her chair back in and moving a few steps down the veranda before tossing her parting shot over her shoulder at him. "But I don't have to like it." So saying, she strode away.

Roarke sat back, chuckling in resignation and shaking his head. Stubborn to the very end: that was his daughter all right. He checked his gold watch and got up himself to attend to one of the fantasies.

Leslie, grappling with the inevitability of the coming ordeal, drove to Amberville and its tiny avenue of more exclusive shops; in addition to the formalwear shop, there was an upscale beauty salon whose employees specialized in hairstyles appropriate for formal parties. By the time she pulled into a space and killed the jeep's engine, her expression was so thunderous that passersby gave her a wide berth. Unheeding, she headed for the formalwear shop first, wanting nothing more than to get the whole thing over and done with.

The staff fell all over themselves trying to assist her; clearly, they saw her black mood, correctly deduced the reason for it, and tried their misguided best to let her know they were on her side. By the time Leslie had finally chosen a gown, she had heard all she could stand, and only barely refrained from ordering them to shut up. "Just please hold that dress for me," she requested curtly. "I have to get my hair done and my face made up, so it'll be about two hours."

"You'll outshine his wife by a mile," someone predicted gleefully. "The belle of the ball for sure, Miss Leslie."

She responded with a tiny, strained smile and made her escape, stalking to the hair salon with angry steps that clacked loudly on the wooden walkway fronting the row of shops. She gave the hair-salon door a shove that set the bell on it in a frenzy of jangling and made everyone inside stop to look up. The next second, all five stylists in the building descended on her, fussing and offering to do the most spectacular job possible on her hair. Leslie, feeling as though she might detonate any moment, picked one stylist at random, followed the woman across the room and had her hair washed. With a towel around her neck, she thumped into a chair and glared menacingly at her own reflection in the mirror.

"Wow, Leslie, who stole your wallet?" asked a familiar voice at her right, and her head snapped around so hard and fast that her neck ached in protest. Sitting in the next chair was Myeko Sensei, having her jet-black wedge cut curled into ringlets so tiny Leslie thought they had to hurt. "Hi…I sure hope I'm not the one you're mad at."

"No," Leslie muttered grudgingly. _Not yet, anyway,_ came the uncharitable thought, which she promptly squashed by staring at Myeko's hairstyle-in-progress. "Why on earth are you torturing your hair like that?"

Myeko grinned. "My own idea. I got fed up with the same old hairstyle, but it's too short to really change. So I figured I'd curl the living daylights out of it. Did you reserve your gown yet? Mine's going to be pale lemon-yellow…someone said it would look great with my dark coloring."

"Hold it," Leslie said, staring at her. "Gown? You mean you're going to the wedding reception?"

"Yep," said Myeko. "Not because I was invited, exactly. Since I'm the entertainment-slash-gossip reporter for the _Chronicle_, I was told I needed to get some interviews. I can't complain, really. They're footing the bill for gown rental, this hairstyle, and a makeup session, and I even get to bring a date. So Clark's taking the evening off and getting all gussied up too. Sayuri's babysitting the kids." Myeko's hairdresser, who had been off somewhere getting some more styling paraphernalia, returned and picked up a curling iron. "Hey Janice, if it was you, what would you do? Me, I'd be dying to get a piece of that two-timer. Heck, who knows, maybe I will anyway." She and the stylist both laughed.

Audrey, the woman combing Leslie's hair, joined in the conversation, which seemed to be meant for Leslie to hear but not participate in. It was clear that it had already been in progress when Leslie arrived, and her presence was obviously not enough to stop it. Leslie gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut while Audrey spritzed her hair with a styling lotion of some sort. The banter carried on for awhile, so that it was a great relief when Audrey turned on a hair dryer and pointed it at Leslie's head. Unfortunately, ten minutes later when she shut it off, the topic was still going strong and showed no signs of abating. Finally Leslie was driven to implore, "Please, can't you think of something else to talk about?" In the mirror she saw Myeko and the two stylists exchange surprised glances.

"But you've been stewing about it for weeks, Leslie," Myeko said. "Come on, don't you want some kind of revenge on him for what he did?"

"I just want everyone to drop it!" Leslie bit out, driven past her limit at long last. "It's the oldest news on the island, and I've had all I can handle and then some. So stop talking about it and give me some peace!" Her voice broke on the last word and she turned away.

A stunned silence fell in the room; then Audrey said tentatively, "Did you hear that Fantasy Island High's finally going to be competing with Hawaiian high schools in track meets?" This inquiry met with enthusiastic responses, and Leslie was able for the first time to tune out the chatter and turn inward, trying to decide how she was going to handle the anticipated shock of seeing Christian with his wife in person. An hour later—after Audrey had twined her hair into an elaborate chignon secured by strands of miniature pearls, and a girl named Starla had applied a flawless makeup job without saying one single word the entire time—Leslie paid and got out, picking up her dress and heading directly home. It was a singular relief to get back to the main house and retreat upstairs, which was all the easier to do since Roarke happened to be out at the moment.

"Definitely the day from hell," Leslie told herself sourly, staring at her glamorous hair and face in the bathroom mirror, "preceding the night from hell. But at least I'm not going to _look_ like hell." She smiled grimly before going back to her bedroom, noting the time and changing her clothing.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie maintained a frosty silence as she entered the old opera house on Roarke's arm; she had explained to him on their way over here that this was the only way she felt she could cope with the situation, and asked him not to take offense. Roarke had mulled this over for a moment, looking dubious. "Are you sure that's the best way you can handle it?"

She had sighed. "Well, I'm going to start out that way anyway. I do know one thing. If there's any way I can possibly help it, I'm not going to give Christian the satisfaction of seeing just how badly he hurt me."

Roarke's gaze grew enigmatic, tinged with just a hint of wry amusement. "I strongly suspect he will derive anything but satisfaction from that knowledge," he remarked.

She was still turning this comment over in her mind when they came inside and found themselves set upon by lofty dignitaries from too many countries to name. Among them, as it turned out, were Prince Errico and Princess Michiko, the latter of whom Leslie was profoundly glad to see. "I had no idea you'd be here," she exclaimed as she and Michiko unabashedly hugged each other, fussy attire and formal atmosphere notwithstanding.

"It's just another one of those official duties we have to carry out as royalty," said Michiko cheerfully. "We'll have a chance to catch up with each other and the other girls, since Errico and I decided to use this as an excuse to take a vacation and we're going to be here for a full month with the children." She drew back and regarded Leslie worriedly. "Are you okay? I mean…no sooner had we stepped foot on the island than we discovered that Prince Christian was supposed to have married you, not the Italian count's daughter."

Leslie shrugged. "I told Father I'm just going to be cold and silent. This is nothing more than an endurance test for me, Michiko."

Michiko nodded and suddenly grinned impishly. "To tell the truth, Leslie, maybe that's the best way to go. That frozen silence makes you look unapproachably regal." Both girls laughed and hugged each other again. "Maybe Errico and I can be a buffer for you."

"I'd appreciate that," Leslie said gratefully. "So where are we supposed to sit?"

The dinner was delicious, although even with Michiko's presence to smooth things out, Leslie found she couldn't choke down more than a dozen or so bites. It was a relief when the place settings were cleared away after the final course, although she wasn't really looking forward to the dancing either. The dinner had at least kept people from mingling, even though she, Roarke, Michiko and Errico were seated at a table within easy sight of the one where the Lilla Jordsö contingent sat. Leslie had confined her attention to conversing with the others at their own table and managed not to look around—but Roarke had seen Christian staring in her direction more than once throughout the meal. The last time, Christian had finally become aware that Roarke was onto him, and had turned quickly away, leaving Roarke to wonder with mild concern where things would go from here.

"Dancing?" Leslie asked now, as if caught by surprise. "Oh dear, I'd forgotten."

"Have no fear," Prince Errico spoke up earnestly, smiling warmly at her. "I have many friends who are in attendance here tonight, and I myself shall personally see to it that your dance card is as full as can be. You need not ever face the man."

"Errico," Michiko scolded affectionately.

But Leslie grinned. "If they don't mind having their toes tromped on, then by all means, bring them on. That way Father won't be stuck dancing with me all night." They all laughed as the first classical passage got under way and the dance floor filled up.

Errico was true to his word and Leslie had quite a few different dance partners for the first hour or so. By the time she finally had her first dance with Roarke, she was breathless with astonishment. "You wouldn't believe it, Father. So far I've danced with an ambassador, his son, four princes of all ages, two prime ministers and three presidents. And I think I've heard more accents than I ever knew existed."

Roarke laughed. "It sounds as if you're enjoying yourself after all."

"I guess so," Leslie mused with surprise. "It must be Michiko's and Errico's presence here. Whoever was responsible for that, I'm eternally grateful to them."

The orchestra took a short break during which Myeko swooped down on Leslie and Michiko, and the three friends chatted excitedly, oblivious to their surroundings. Roarke watched from a few feet away, having stepped aside long enough to indulge himself in a glass of champagne. He was in a position to see Christian, trapped in a one-way conversation with an ostentatiously garbed official, paying only half the attention to the encounter that he should have been because he was so busy watching Leslie with her friends. The pained look on Christian's features spoke volumes to Roarke's knowing eye.

The orchestra soon started up again and Leslie went through three more dances before winding up as her father's partner once more. She had just described a joke told to her by Errico, who had danced with her immediately prior to this, and she and Roarke were both laughing softly when something touched Leslie's shoulder and a male voice requested with rigid formality, "May I have this dance, if you please?"


	11. Chapter 11

§ § § -- August 25, 1996

Leslie stopped right there; her stomach went into a panicked free-fall, and the feeling radiated from the look she sent Roarke. He gave her a brief smile, meant to reassure, and nodded once, stepping back without a word and relinquishing her to Christian.

"Hello, Leslie," the prince said without expression or vocal inflection. She dipped her head, face now a frozen mask, looking over his shoulder.

Ironically, the dance was a waltz; the music seemed now to grate on Leslie's ears. For a few seconds neither spoke, until Christian finally asked plaintively, "Am I so hateful to you now, Leslie Rose?"

She winced inwardly but managed to maintain tight control over her icy expression. She couldn't think of an answer, so didn't bother to give him one. Despite herself, her heart was tripping crazily at his proximity; she was afraid she might faint from sheer sensory overload. His touch, his scent, his voice were all precisely as she remembered them, precisely as they still haunted her dreams most nights.

When she didn't speak, Christian tried again. "You seem to be doing well."

"Yes," she said tersely, without looking at him.

Their dance continued in this vein, with Leslie studiously watching other dancers around them, looking everywhere but at Christian despite his attempts to discreetly punch through her frozen façade. Eventually, with the waltz nearing its end, he grew desperate. "Leslie, for God's sake, will you please look at me?" he begged.

His tone of voice surprised her into doing as he asked, and she was very startled to see that he looked drawn and tense, as though he might snap at any moment. Once he had her direct attention, he took instant advantage. "It's imperative that I speak with you in private, Leslie," he said, voice low and insistent. "I beg you: give me a chance to explain."

"What's to explain?" she demanded, her fragile mask cracking at last. "I know what happened—I saw your brother's press conference on television, showing off you and your wife for all the world to see. What more is there?"

"A great deal more," Christian shot back immediately. "I deserve the chance to tell you my side of the story. Can't you see fit to allow me that?"

His genuine anguish got to her, despite her best attempts to ward off the effects of his pleading, and she caved in, cursing herself mentally. "All right…I'll meet you outside." She broke abruptly away from him with perfect timing as the music ended and the dancers began to applaud, and hurriedly wove her way through the throngs till she reached the ladies'-room door. To her enormous relief, no one else was there, and she gave her reflection a thorough once-over, leaning on a sink for support. _Am I crazy?_ she wondered anxiously. Do _I have the strength to listen to him making excuses? Can I stand to be so close to him without wanting to give in and fall into his arms and let him fool me again?_

But her sense of fair play wouldn't let her duck out on him, and a couple of minutes later she emerged from the restroom and resolutely headed for the main entry. No one impeded her progress, and shortly she stood in the middle of a small, very old orange grove at the side of the opera house. The trees no longer bore fruit, but they were evidence of some secret history that gave tantalizing hints of a time before this was Fantasy Island, when perhaps some ambitious colonist had hoped to make a fortune here. She thought she could still smell a citrus tang in the air.

"Leslie…" she heard Christian's voice then, and looked nervously around to see him approaching her at a half-run. Moonlight silvered his form, gleaming off his glossy hair, as he stopped before her and gazed hungrily at her, as though he wanted to touch her but didn't dare. "Thank you for this."

"Just get on with it," she said, more brusquely than she had intended.

Christian cleared his throat. "Leslie, I was tricked," he said without preamble. "My brother took me completely by surprise when he informed me that I was tied to a marriage contract that my father drew up with Marina's, six months after Johanna's death. I never knew about it until Arnulf called me while I was here on the island last month. Apparently my father signed my name to the document, despite my being of age at the time. When Arnulf told me about it, I was incensed, and I demanded that he get me out of it. I told him not to contact me again unless it was to tell me that the contract had been voided, and then I hung up on him. I meant every word of it, Leslie, but Arnulf didn't take me seriously. He never has and I expect he never will. He ignored me and proceeded to marry me to Marina by proxy. I found out almost as soon as I arrived at the castle."

She stared at him with a new sense of betrayal. "Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"I never expected to actually have to deal with it," Christian said. "It was a horrific shock to go in there and tell Arnulf my plans, only to have him blow them to dust by telling me I was already married to Marina. He decreed that I wouldn't be allowed out of the country till the marriage had been consummated."

The implication of this hit Leslie with a force that induced nausea. "Well, I see you're here," she said bitterly, turning away from him.

"Between you and me and Marina, my Leslie Rose…it hasn't been," Christian said with quiet urgency. "She knows all about you, my darling, and what's more, she has given us her blessing. You see, Marina is dying. She has a terminal illness and doesn't expect to live more than a few years at most. She tells me it's hereditary, and for this reason she won't risk bearing children for fear of passing it on. She refused as well to have marital relations—she just won't take the chance of becoming pregnant." Christian raked a hand through his hair and blew out his breath. "She was honest with me, Leslie, enough that I took the plunge and told her about you. And that's when she astonished me by saying she already knew. I don't know how. I know only that she told me she was aware that I was in love with someone else, and that it was all right with her. We came to an understanding, and conspired to tell my brother that we had consummated the marriage when in reality we had done no such thing. Since Marina backed me up, he believed it. Then I told him in no uncertain terms that I wanted our wedding reception held here on Fantasy Island, because I knew it was the only possible way I could get to you." He leaned toward her, as if magnetized. "If you still love me, Leslie Rose—and I hope you do—will you wait for me? With my brother and her father watching the two of us, we can't annul the marriage or get a divorce, but she has accepted the situation and the fact of her death. For that matter, she's so serene about it, she frightens me a little. One day I'll be free once again, and that's the day I'll come back to you. Please, my darling, tell me you'll be waiting."

Leslie said nothing, still facing away from him, huddled into herself. She wanted to believe him, but she was too wary, too afraid of losing another gamble. She stared stonily into the night without speaking.

Desperation liberally laced his voice when he spoke again. "Please…I know it sounds morbid, but I need to know you'll be here." When she didn't reply, he released a frustrated noise that was half groan, half grunt. "You leave me no choice." With that, he abruptly tugged her into his arms and kissed her with rough intent.

She could have resisted anything but that. Christian's kisses had always been her weakness, leaving her breathless and dazed, her world reduced only to him. It was no different now. She collapsed against him, responding fervently, and he instantly gentled the kiss, clutching her closely against him. For a stolen few moments they forgot the dismal situation in which they were trapped, aware of nothing but each other.

But when he finally drew his head back, Leslie's eyes glittered with the tears that she had stubbornly refused to shed all these weeks. His own eyes welled up as if in sympathy, and he said, "I'm going to e-mail you."

"No," she whispered brokenly.

"You can't stop me," Christian replied, lowering his head till his lips brushed against hers as he spoke. "After all, I'm the one who created your e-mail in the first place, and I know your address, Leslie Rose." He kissed her again before she could protest further, and once more her senses wheeled out of her control. One of her tears found its way past her closed eyelids and spilled down her cheek; when they tasted it in their kiss, they broke apart.

Defeated at last, she choked, "I love you…so help me, Christian Carl Tobias Enstad, I love you so much…" The last of her control disintegrated and she wrenched away from him, fleeing into the darkness, sobbing.

"_Leslie!"_ Christian shouted and started after her, but found himself unexpectedly restrained by a hand on his arm.

"Let her go, Christian," Roarke advised quietly but firmly.

He swung back to face Roarke, his frantic despair etched in his features. "How on earth can I convince her that I'm telling the truth?" he cried.

"She believes you," Roarke assured him. "If she didn't, she would never have admitted that she is still in love with you. But she's faced as much as she can possibly take, and she needs time to regain her equilibrium. Leave Leslie her dignity."

Christian sagged as if the entire planet had been placed on his back, and he nodded, head down. "Yes…I suppose I must put on my mask once more and rejoin Marina." He lifted his head and stared up at Roarke. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke, for giving me the chance to tell Leslie my side of the story. I am more grateful to you than you can know."

Roarke smiled and gave a slow nod of acknowledgement. "Go back to your wife," he suggested gently. He stood watching Christian trudge toward the opera-house entrance; after a moment's self-indulgence, the prince stopped, straightened and lifted his head, visibly donning the false stoicism that had become his public face, before continuing forward.


	12. Chapter 12

§ § § -- August 26, 1996

Leslie's composure was back in place the next morning at the plane dock to see their guests off, and Roarke was impressed by how well she managed to hide her roiling emotions. Her smile dropped as soon as the plane taxied away, but she was calm and under control.

"How are you feeling this morning?" he asked her on the way back to the main house.

"Numb, I guess," she said through a heavy sigh. "I think last evening, facing Christian, burned out my emotions…I just don't feel anything at the moment."

Roarke nodded. "A natural defense mechanism," he said. "That's fine. Christian and Marina and their entourage will be leaving this afternoon, and although I hate to do it, I am afraid I must ask you to face him one final time and see them off with me."

She shrugged. "I just hope the numbness lasts till then." Roarke smiled in sympathy and squeezed her shoulder.

Shortly after they returned, the mail arrived and Leslie took over the task of sorting through it, happy to have something concrete to focus on. Roarke checked his date book, then set it aside and began to return phone calls. In the middle of all this, the foyer door opened and someone came inside, pausing at the top of the steps and surveying the study. Roarke spotted the visitor, quickly wound up his call and hung up.

"Come in, please," he said, making Leslie look up. "May we be of assistance?"

Leslie's stomach plunged again when she recognized Marina, Christian's wife. The younger woman was frightfully thin, even more so than she had appeared on television; she looked on the verge of starvation. Her night-black hair provided vivid contrast to her unnaturally pale skin. She stepped into the office and came to stand in front of the desk, her large dark eyes scrutinizing first Roarke and then Leslie. Leslie met her gaze, but it was all she could do not to shudder under Marina's frank stare.

Then Marina smiled, fully and wholeheartedly, surprising both Leslie and Roarke. "I hope I am not intruding," she said questioningly. She was soft-spoken, her voice not much above a whisper. "But I wished to speak with you, without Christian present."

"By all means," Roarke said and gestured at the chairs. "Please, sit down and make yourself comfortable. May we get you anything?"

"No, but thank you, Mr. Roarke." Marina gracefully lowered herself into a chair and folded her hands in her lap, focusing on Leslie. "So you are the light of Christian's life," she said warmly.

"You know about…him and me?" Leslie asked dumbly, beyond amazement now.

Marina nodded. "Christian's niece, Anna-Kristina, explained everything to me. I bear you no ill will. This was no more my choice than it was his, please understand that. This should never have happened."

The question that had plagued Leslie for weeks would no longer be denied, and plowed out of her seemingly of its own volition. "Christian claims you can't get either an annulment or a divorce. Why not? This isn't the sixteenth century, when parents controlled their children's lives well into adulthood. What can the king and the count possibly do to you if you put an end to their forced matchmaking?"

"More than you know, Leslie," Marina told her sadly. "I was only five when I was betrothed to Christian, and I barely remember the trip to Lilla Jordsö for the signing of the marriage contract. Just like Christian, I too fell in love with another; and when my father announced that it was now time for me to fulfill the obligation he had entered me into, I tried to rebel. But he told me something that forced my hand.

"My father cultivates a particular spice called _amakarna_, and it's a very rare one—so rare that only a few can tolerate it. But those few find themselves with more energy, a reduced need for sleep, and overall excellent health. And a scant handful need that spice to survive. It's true of me and my father and sister; perhaps amakarna is the only thing that keeps me alive in the face of my illness. In any case, it is very popular on Lilla Jordsö, and its kings and queens have included it in their diets for several generations. The late king, Christian's father, was no different; and neither is his brother, the current king. As a result, those of Christian's family who are directly in line for the throne have grown dependent enough upon this spice that they can no longer live without it.

"Amakarna must be grown in a warm climate, and Lilla Jordsö is too far north to allow for its cultivation. So it has been necessary for the royal family to import it; and until King Arnulf I took the throne, there was never a problem with this. My grandfather was always more than generous in his dealings with them, and he grew wealthy from the trade.

"Unfortunately, my father is not so magnanimous of spirit; he is ambitious, what you might call a social climber. When my grandfather died—of the very illness I now have—he contacted King Arnulf with an ultimatum. He wanted one of his daughters to be wed to one of Arnulf's sons, and if arrangements were not made to that end, he would cut off their supply of amakarna. No one else on earth grows it, as far as we know, so he knew he had them in a very bad position. 'Over a barrel', I believe the phrase is." She hesitated, then said, "I apologize, Mr. Roarke, but perhaps I could impose upon you for a glass of water?"

"Of course," Roarke agreed immediately. Leslie glanced at him as she got up to fill the request; he had an extremely intense look on his face, one so concentrated that she wondered what about Marina's narrative had ensnared his interest so thoroughly. She filled a heavy lead-crystal glass and brought it back; Marina smiled her thanks and drank some.

"I think you can guess what happened," she said after a moment. "The king knew he must have amakarna: it was as necessary a nutrient to him as any vitamin or mineral. His other children were married, but his youngest son had recently been widowed, he said, and he would be happy to offer him in marriage. My sister wasn't available, so my father offered me, even though I was only five years old and Christian was twenty-three.

"So they drew up the contract, and Arnulf signed on his son's behalf—apparently without ever telling him what he had done. After he died last year and Arnulf II ascended to the throne, I celebrated my twenty-first birthday, and my father demanded fulfillment of the marriage agreement. Like his father, Arnulf II must have amakarna to survive, so he pushed Christian into this marriage, just as my father pushed me."

Leslie and Roarke looked at each other, Roarke still with that intense expression. "So the king's very life is at stake," Roarke said slowly, "and in light of that, he felt that he had no choice but to sell his brother, in a sense."

Marina winced but nodded. "Yes, that's exactly right. Amakarna is not easy to grow, and the annual supply is quite limited, which gave my father even more of an advantage. He was quick to take it, I'm afraid. So you see, Christian and I were both sacrificed for the sake of a trade agreement, and there is nothing I can say, since I myself need amakarna to live as well. Even with it, I will be dead within five years." Her voice was steady. "I have lived with my illness since my early teens and have long since accepted that it will kill me."

"You're so calm about it," Leslie marveled, impressed in spite of herself.

Marina lifted her shoulders slightly. "To deny it, or to rail and rage over my fate, will not change it. So I made my peace instead. Leslie, I know that Christian pleaded with you last evening, without success; so perhaps I can sway you. Knowing what you do now, will you wait for him? Will you be here for him when I am gone?"

Leslie stared at her, astonished all over again. "Christian said you gave your blessing to the whole idea, but it sounded too good to be true, as desperately as I wanted to believe him. Now I see it really is true." She heaved a deep sigh and closed her eyes in an attempt to stave off the telltale stinging that presaged tears. "And the fates help me, but I love him too much to refuse." She opened her eyes again and nodded at Marina. "Yes, I'll wait for him."

Marina smiled broadly. "I'm so glad. I only want you two to be happy."

"You are an extraordinarily generous young woman, Marina," Roarke said softly, his voice and smile warm, his eyes alight. "To go out of your way in this manner to see to it that my daughter and your husband should have their chance at happiness together…"

Marina raised a hand, stopping him. "We were manipulated, all of us, and it's my way of trying to set things right," she said, shaking her head. She drank some more from her glass, then set it on the desk and stood up. "I've accomplished what I hoped to do, and I thank you both so very much for your time. I had better get back to our bungalow, since Christian doesn't know I am here." She nodded at Roarke, who returned the gesture, and smiled at Leslie. "I wish you both the very best, and thank you again." Seeming to glide more than walk, she quietly let herself out.

Roarke and Leslie sat in contemplative silence for some time after Marina's departure, both lost in thought. Leslie, still trying to absorb all that Marina had said, eventually turned to her father to say something, only to find him watching her. "What's that for?"

Roarke chuckled. "You look a little overwhelmed, Leslie. Has this made the situation any easier for you?"

"I don't really know," Leslie said slowly, her voice trailing off as she considered the question; then she frowned, bit her lip and nodded. "Yes, I think it has, believe it or not." She gave Roarke a surprised look. "It actually has. I still can't get over Marina's incredible generosity. I wonder what sort of illness she has that she's so certain she's going to die? I mean, don't you think they might have looked for a cure?"

Roarke's dark eyes took on that strangely intense look again and his gaze lost focus. "There is no cure, my child," he said softly. "What she has is so rare, no doctor has ever even heard of it…" Her stare sharpened; he seemed to grow aware of this and came back to the moment immediately. "I suggest you do as Marina has done, and simply accept the way of it. One day, you and Christian will be together again. Take hope in that, and utilize all possible patience. After all, you know that a happy ending lies somewhere in your future—so for now, let Christian go, and give yourself the chance to move on."

Leslie smiled faintly. "I've done it before, I can do it again," she said, and cleared her throat as if to begin the long wait. "Well, there's work to be done." With that, she went back to the stack of envelopes in her lap. Roarke smiled and turned his attention back to his own tasks, secure in the knowledge that she would be just fine.

* * *

_What does Roarke know that he isn't telling Leslie? The answer lies in a future story…stay tuned!_


End file.
